Thursday, December 11, 2014

Where are my Muses?

Each artist has his own Muse. Yung iba friend nila. Yung iba fuck buddy nila. Yung iba talagang nagbabayad pa. Yung iba, tulad ni Italian designer Valentino Garavani, mga aristocrats gaya ni Princess Rosario of Bulgaria at Duchess Naty Abascal.

Low profile ako bilang manunulat. I have imaginary ones. Hindi lang isa. Marami pa sila. Bakit babae kamo? Dahil kung kukunin ko lang naman ang insipiration mula sa isang lalaki eh puro kalibugan lang siguro ang maisusulat ko. So babae because they can make me creative.

These muses were going to be my heroines and villains in the novel I’m working on. But they’re gone. Seriously, they’re gone.

I talk to them. I don’t see them with my physical eyes, but I can speak with them.

San na nga ba sila? O siguro ako lang ang nawala.

Trabaho kasi. Malapit na matapos ang taon hanggang ngayon kahit chapter 1 hindi ko pa mabuo.

I wasn’t loyal to them. Siguro kung babawasan ko ang attention ko sa iba at ibuhos ko na talaga ang energy at focus ko sa pagsusulat, babalik siguro sila....

The Secret in a Hot Pink Suit

There are gays in the government, in the legislative chambers, and even in the Philippine diplomatic bodies. They’ve got trophy wives, brilliant children studying in UP or La Salle or Ateneo, friends in the military and friends who are big-time in jail. But they are all hiding in the closet, and perhaps fucking their gardener, just like *beep*. 

During the last years of that midget of a president Gloria Macapagal-Arroyo, a new member of the Philippine diplomatic body was sent to Italy to represent our country and help the Filipino community here in Europe.

Let’s call him Mr. Pink Suit. He was given a very lucrative diplomatic post because he wasn’t only involved in diplomatic missions of the Philippine Embassy in Rome, he’s also appointed to represent Philippines to, I think, three or four other European countries and the World Food Organization

An exclusive welcome party was organized in the villa of an ambitious Italian diplomat, and sure enough, the atrocious-looking local politicians were there- from the influential patriarch of a mafia-partnered family to the epals who head various community organizations. Of course, I was there, being a genuine epal myself and the official gate-crasher (the perks having a friend in political circles, I am always welcomed somewhere even though I’m the uninvited).


Mr. Pink Suit was there. He wasn’t wearing pink. Just like any other government official, he’s wearing one those drab-coloured functional suits politicians always wear. But he was very neat and his shoes were too fabulous to be straight.

During the party, social-climbers and local potentates were gossiping feverishly because of a certain detail that was really bugging the bigots, both rich and poor- Mr. PS was a bachelor at 50.

And we all know that this fact will constitute to an unfolding theory that Mr. PS is probably gay. It’s always like that. The unmarried guy at 50 is always alleged to be gay.

That evening, when all the bigots returned to their homes, the word was out- that there’s a brilliant diplomat BUT he’s gay. That’s the thing about describing power-players in the Philippines who happen to be gay or presumed to be gay- a deprecating conjunction that would render the previous venerating phrase absolutely and cleverly imperfect.

Despite what the community said about his alleged sexuality, Mr. PS performed splendidly, like no other Philippine ambassador nor any other DFA functionary did for this godforsaken community, except for one former labor attaché. Brilliance, efficiency, and charisma- these were the words that best describe his diplomatic work here in Italy.

I asked my friend Ms. Blue Bird if it’s true, if Mr. PS is gay. She couldn’t confirm it. There were mixed signals. And besides, her gaydar wasn’t functioning that perfectly.

Unfortunately, Mr. Pink Suit left the diplomatic mission to Italy and was recalled back to the Philippines. His flaw as a government official was not his alleged sexuality. I mean, it doesn’t really matter who he is sleeping with, as long as he can do his job efficiently. The problem with Mr. Pink Suit was an Arroyo midnight appointee.

Now we have new diplomats and a new ambassador. And we’re all back again to the same old lacklustre political business, with the most atrocious looking community leaders. Well, there’s not hope for that. They’re straight. 

The Love Must Go On

Kumpleto na sana ang 2014 kung nakapunta ako sa concert ni Lady Gaga. Yun nga lang eh, February pa lang sold out na tickets, kahit yung mga special passes nila. Puñetang mga baklang yon!

Tulad din ng sabi ko noon, hindi ako mahilig sa mga clubs o disco, but I love live band performances at mga concerts. Dun ako nagwawala, at minsan nawawala. Frustrated rockstar/jazz-singer/pole-dancer ako. Hahaha!

Uneventful ang 2014 ko, in terms of music. Biglang may offer sa trabaho na discounted tickets para sa isang benefit concert na gagawin ng isang tribute band na tumutulong sa Ronal Mcdonald’s Foundation.

Duda ako sa tribute bands. Nababaduyan lang kasi ako sa mga impersonators. Somehow nung nakita ko yung Rubbish Band na cover band ng Oasis, ok naman. Pero itong Great Queen Rats na nag impersonate pa kay Freddie Mercury? Ewan ko lang. But since trip ko din ang ilang hits ng Queen eh di bumili nako ng ticket ko for one. Isa lang. Walang date. I don’t know anybody na mahilig sa mga rock classics. Nalaman ko na lang na inobliga ng director naming ang lahat na bumili ng ticket. Masaya nako!

Nagpunta halos lahat ng workforce ng trabaho. Sponsor pala yung may-ari ng company. It was a nice experience dahil hindi nako nag-iisa! Yes!

 Ok yung band. I was surprised dahil kuhang kuha niya yung voice ni Freddie Mercury. Too think pero kamukha na rin pati bigote. Yung ibang songs di ko alam pero nagwala nako nung kinanta na yung mga rock anthems ng Queen- The Show Must Go On, Somebody to Love, Crazy Little Thing Called Love, Bohemian Rhapsody, Under Pressure (grabe!), We Will Rock You, Another One Bites The Dust, at above all mas na feel ko ang I Want to Break Free (alam na!). Siyempre tatapusin ang tribute concert ng Queen with the walang kamatayang all-time favourite rock anthem We Are the Champions.

Great Queen Rats rock on! Long live the Queen!


Friday, December 05, 2014

Bewitched, Bothered, Bewildered

I am bewitched.

Bewitched by Lady Gaga’s cover of Bewitched, Bothered, and Bewildered song, which eventually led me to Ella Fitzgerald’s version that was a lot better than Gaga’s, which prompted me to do my own cover, which led me to do more research and found out that the song is a soundtrack of this interesting movie (sort of a gay flick) “History Boys”, and eventually urged me to buy a DVD copy, and finally had me crying like a girl in a hormonal-wreck-kind-of-having-that-menstruation-kind-of-situation condition while watching the movie; an I can’t explain why. In the long run, to let all these things pass away, I watched Nicole Kidman’s flop-movie Bewitched, because she’s awesome.

I am bothered.

It’s December and the climate’s like autumn, and it’s depressing; depressing because it’s the second week of the month and salary and Christmas bonus are nowhere to be found, and the insurance company’s asking why I’m not depositing money in my policy account since March; more than that I look at myself in the mirror and I don’t see a Santa look-alike, but I see an ogre; a fucking big fat ogre, and I’m going back to the Philippines next month, and it’s gonna be travel, travel, food, and food and lot’s pigging around until February, and it’s December, and it’s fucking Christmas, and I’ll be singing the blues again, and please don’t let me be blue while I’m in Zurich!

I am bewildered.

Three weeks in a different workplace, and I'll be staying here until February next year; I’m a man on a mission, and the whole team is an absurd combination of personalities and characters that crash into one another, contradictions, and politics and all those stupid suck-ups, and as usual, I’m a big politician as ever, everybody’s friend and the biggest ass-kisser in the workplace, again; and I am trying to get a date and stop obsessing with my bestfriend; but I really have no time for my love-life because there’s a list of people who will receive gifts from my bounty, and Santa’s not coming to town anymore, taxes fucked up everything that’s why, AND THREE CHRISTMAS PARTIES, THREE! and as usual I am forced to be there, join the sex games (oversexed again?), and the who monito-monita brouhaha, and what the hell am I saying?

Ella sing to me darling!

Thursday, November 27, 2014

The Heir, the Only Begotten Gay Son

The men of my family were known to be serial womanizers- some were notorious and some were subtle in keeping their mistresses. And just like any other male species, they are proud of this trait, or sometimes they conceal their pleasure of being notoriously known for their despicable behaviour.

It was said that my grandfather started it. He was tall, dark and handsome. Many girls secretly desired him and aspired to be his wife. With tenacious faith and fervent prayers in the church, my grandma succeeded in stealing away his heart. She thought that she was lucky because she married somebody who was handsome, and above all, somebody who had a land and a big house. Here’s the catch when one marries a handsome and clever guy- he may be fond of forbidden liaisons. And that was the case.

Wits and suave moves were definitely irresistible at the time. And possessing these made my grandfather a shrewd playboy. But grandma wasn’t a drama queen. Whenever she suspects him to have flirted with a woman, she would invite my grandfather in our basement so she could confront him calmly.

I think it was during the Marcos years when my grandmother found out my grandfather’s secret. She found out, through her cousin who worked for the government, that my grandfather sired a child with a young woman who lived in the woods, one of those peasant farmers who worked for tenants like my grandfather. This woman came to the Municipio to register the birth of her son. The woman named my grandfather as the father of the child. I think my grandfather never took responsibility of the boy. When my grandmother confronted him, he was outraged and went away. He took his shot-gun and when to the woods to hunt. Perhaps he thought of shooting the one who spilled the beans. But thank God, when he returned, he wasn’t carrying a human head, but a deer.

After that, my grandmother, like any other pious and subservient Filipina, rest her case and never brought up the issue again, until now, because his man is now buried six feet under.

Then there’s my grandfather’s younger brother. He was the classic pilyo, with his fair skin, wavy hair, and a charismatic smile. He’s the adventurous kind- adventurous in gambling, in local politics, and a classic adventurer in every woman’s cave. He married a woman who gave him three sons and two daughters. And later on in his life he had a young mistress who bore him, I think, two other children. When the secret was found out, it was the most devastating storm that hit his household.

And then there’s my father and my uncle. These two were bestfriends when they were young. My father, being the eldest was the big brother who taught my uncle many things, especially about women.

I used to think that my father was just like any average guy- many girlfriends but would eventually settle with one woman. He did. But I was kind of surprised when my mother told me that she believes my father has a child with another woman before they got married.

Now I believe now why my uncle said that in their generation of the family, it was my father who started it, the way my grandfather paved the way for the men of the family to become douchebags. He said that my father taught him the ways of a ladies’ man.
When my father reached a certain age and maturity, maybe in his thirties, he became a loving and faithful husband. As for his disciple, my uncle, he’s an asshole until now.

Every time I visit my relatives in Milan, he would be there and he would tease me and the other folks that I am such a loser, having no girlfriend at my marriageable age. “Or maybe you’re gay?”, followed by a roaring laughter. He would boast of his conquests and my father’s prowess on being a bolero with the ladies. 

I hated those moments when they were scrutinizing my private life. Because nothing should be private in our big family. Our personal conquests must add to whatever reputation my family has. But now I look at him and see how pathetic he has become- bragging of being a habulin ng babae while his children and wife are slowly distancing themselves from this padre de familia. The only thing positive about his infidelity is that he hasn’t yet fathered a child with one of his many ugly mistresses nor caught any venereal disease.

And this is just my father’s side of the family. You still haven’t heard about my hedonistic uncles in my mother’s side of the family. All three uncles- guilty of infidelity.

In the past they may have bragged about it or carried the reputation as badge of honor. Now, as the whole family has converted to Protestantism, they have all changed their lives and thinking, except for one uncle who is now separated from his wife and childred.

And this made me think, is it possible that God destined me to be gay because there should be someone who would atone for the sins of our forefathers?

I am the eldest on both sides- the apple of the eyes of the family, the great hope who would carry on the thriving name as the legitimate heir apparent, the pride of our fathers. As of now, there are only two of us who are going to carry the family’s name, and I happen to be gay. As much as I want to carry on the legacy, I cannot procreate through natural means with a woman. And the thing is, there are great expectations from the first-born, especially to the Prime First-Born, the legitimate one (yes, this is self-aggrandizement. I speak as if were the royal family of Laguna, or one of the remaining old patrician families of the country).

The alpha-males are all producing girls- virtuous, smart, and the most distinctive attribute of the clan- gallantly proud. But no boy, except for my father and his disciple.

My cousin is showing the symptoms of a chronic babaero. Perhaps there’s hope for our fathers. He may sire ten first-born males. But with me, nada.

It occurred to me this thought of being the sacrificial lamb one day when I was reading the Bible (unbelievable right?).  I read a passage about the death of Solomon’s first born as the result of his adultery, and how God punished sinners up to the third and fourth generations.

Am I the one to atone the adultery of my forefathers? Why is it that these padres de familia, in all their gloriously divinely appointed power and authority over the family, could not redeem themselves? And why should I be the one responsible in cleaning up all their shit? Why am I to become the sore blight that was inflicted upon the family’s pride?

My dear readers (if you actually read this entry) these are just some of the questions I have reserved for God, but if you have the answers, please help me clear my thoughts, because a therapist is too costly, and the Holy Scripture has made me nauseous.