I cheered with a lot of people when “Falling Slowly” from the indie movie Once won the Oscar for Best Song in 2007 over the juggernaut that was Enchanted.  A recent acquaintance with Jon Mclaughlin introduced me to one of the losing songs from Enchanted – So Close.

Broke my heart first time I heard it.

You’re in my arms
And all the world is calm
The music playing on for only two
So close together
And when I’m with you
So close to feeling alive

A life goes by
Romantic dreams will stop
So I bid mine goodbye and never knew
So close was waiting, waiting here with you
And now forever I know
All that I wanted to hold you
So close

So close to reaching that famous happy end
Almost believing this was not pretend
And now you’re beside me and look how far we’ve come
So far we are so close How could I face the faceless days
If I should lose you now?
We’re so close
To reaching that famous happy end
And almost believing this was not pretend
Let’s go on dreaming for we know we are
So close
So close
And still so far

Shontelle – T-shirt

Feeling a little sentimental. 

For you.

One of my pet peeves is discourtesy.  Every encounter unsheathes my claws and the desire to julienne the perp race through my brain with the urgency of a toothache.

A few nights ago at the gym, I was doing the last of my usual circuit of chest-biceps-forearms when I was overtaken by thirst.  As per experience, whenever I leave my space, I stake it out by draping my gym towel over it to apprehend any misunderstanding as to whether it is being used or not.

As I was returning, I saw this guy beside me take the dumbbells I was using. I politely told him that I was still using it and, over the din of the gym’s thumpa-thumpa,  he mumbled what I assumed to be a request to use it alternately. Which I was only happy to oblige.  Big Mistake.

When I needed to use the dumbbells and sought to retrieve it, the bigger Dumbbell who took it had the gall to tell me to “Isoli mo pagkatapos” in a brusque manner as if he was begrudgingly alllowing me it’s use.

It took a lot of effort not to use his bald pate as weighing scale for the two-25 lbs. dumbbells we were contending for.  I opted for verbal volley and left the area after finishing my set.

If thoughts emitted energy, mine would have been hotter than the steam bath’s as I entered it. It didn’t help matters that it was a night I discerned to be Rampant Cruise Night at the Baths featuring some drearies whose hides were already prune-y from hours of exposure to steam and loud call cent’r faguettes discussing the merits of sex as tension relief. 

Well, I needed relief after that double-whammy at the gym.

As always, the girls were flawless and it took them several minutes to take my load off.  Nine minutes, to be exact – give or take a few seconds.

The appeal of reality tv lies in its ability to afford us vicarious pleasure in the roller-coaster of emotions undergone by the participants.  At the same time as  we witness the individuals wallow through depths of stress and humiliation it breeds the “better-you-than-me” attitude otherwise known as schadenfreude.

I have to admit though that I am not immune to the allure of reality shows. My personal favorites include Project Runway, America’s Next Top Model and Iron Chef America. But given the glut of reality shows these days I find myself drawing a line somewhere, specifically between American Idol and everything else that involves a deluge of human misery – an aversion nurtured by years of exposure to the soaps/teledramas/telenovelas my mom was hooked on. 

Recently, though, found that line re-drawn by Reunions – a QTV-11 show voiced-over by Jessica Soho which I usually catch on weekends while contemplating the vagaries of the coming week.

My initial reaction to the show was to grimace at its premise then scoff at its sincerity.  As I pointed out earlier, my instinctive reaction to blatherfest is one of aversion. For me, I’d rather find catharsis in laughter than in the misery of others. Needless to say, it’s a no-brainer for me when given a choice between tearjerkers or Nickelodeon.

Imagine, then, my surprise that I found Reunions to be riveting.

Following a straight-forward format, Reunions documents the efforts of individuals searching for loved ones they have lost touch with. Their tales of misery are varied and legion – parents looking for wayward or lost children, siblings searching for closure with estranged parents, siblings reaching out to each other after being separated for a multitude of reasons.  Some searches have been going on for decades, some for a few months but no matter the length of their search, it is the gut-wrenching emotions at the end of their searches that tie each and every story featured in the show.  Welkin-tearing cries precede tales of woe, recrimination and forgiveness.  Reality tv could not be more visceral than this.

Which leads me to the reason for the the show’s appeal to me.  Though less dramatic than the stories featured in the show, to me, Reunions reflect the story of my own relationship with my family and my need to re-connect with them.

Growing up in a typical Filipino family from a different generation, we were never encouraged to be overtly affectionate beyond the obligatory hand-kissing.  We, like millions of other children from our era, grew up without the trappings of affection emphasized as necessary in today’s family.  To my thinking, there was nothing intrinsically wrong with the way we were raised – it was just a reflection of the times we grew up in.  But it wasn’t enough – the manner of behavior taught us didn’t damage us in any obvious way but it did leave us unable to fully articulate our need for stronger ties or to seek out more common bonds with our family as our focus shifted outward into our own lives.

Even before my dad’s death, gathering all of us under one roof was becoming an effort.  We’d have perfectly good reasons but, still, absences were noted and felt. As I and my siblings grew into our individual lives so did our pre-occupation with our careers and relationships.  This was perfectly fine except that, I felt, little by little we lost our connections as siblings threadbare as they already were.

This state became more apparent over the last three years as the quintessential family holiday – Christmas - was celebrated separately: my mother, my brother and my sister celebrating in Subic,  me staying put in Cavite or spending it with my in-laws and my other brother’s family keeping the holidays with his in-laws as he was working abroad.  To my siblings’ credit, some effort was made to effect a reunion of sorts but it was obvious that it wasn’t going to happen.  I have to own up to my share of the blame because I was not ready to reconcile with them after we had a falling-out.  On hindsight, I could have dealt with my issues with them decisively and moved on but I could not because of the emotional baggage attached to these issues.

Such was the state of my family when my mother was hospitalized last year.  It wasn’t serious enough to warrant treatment other rest and medication but it became a catalyst in thawing my family’s version of the Cold War.  Wrapped in our collective concern, I discovered that I still needed my siblings to be there even if I could handle the situation on my own.  I understood that one’s mere presence can count even if just to reassure each other of one’s willingness to support the other.  

Last December, my family went on our first family trip.  It felt different as I usually travelled alone or with friends and I guess the feeling was shared to some degree by everybody else.  The trip was not without the usual tensions relative to an undertaking but overall it felt good to do something together with my family.  It took us more than 30 years to get there but we were where we wanted to be: with each other.

A Family Portrait

During that trip, the term “family” meant something to me again.  I learned its value once more. I also learned that while it is true that no wound is more painful or scars as deeply than the ones inflicted on us by the people we love, it is likewise true that we cannot find better healing than from the hands of those who wound us.

It is curious how the term BITCH when hurled in conniption  can inflict a swath of ego/reputation-wounding injuries.  On the other hand, when BITCH is bandied willingly it can inspire awe in some and erectile dysfunction in others.

Supposedly, us fags possess the innate ability to play tag-team with “difficult” women as bitches are otherwise known by the civilized/PC world.   The affinity stemming hypothetically from our power to grow claws and revert to our femme bestial selves when duly provoked.

[Note:  Catnip to my claws are ignorance, discourtesy and pushy fat asses on narrow bus seats.]

Another link we have, I guess, with the scarlet women and the femme fatales of real and reel life is our admiration of the traits that distinguish them from the wall-flowers: confidence, self-sufficiency, ingenuity, abhorrence of the stupid and the mediocre and a flair for style and dramatics.   Traits that may not win anyone a Ms. Congeniality sash but will certainly see one through any Survivor edition or maybe even a Terminator attack.

On-screen,  anti-heroines have more appeal to me because their characters are less trapped as caricatures [and less insipid] than the actual heroines. These frequently maligned women display dimensions and emotions closer to humanity than any two-bit cartoon heroine that ever graced Saturday mornings.  Admittedly, some of the methods employed by the anti-heroines need work. [Sure, murder and maiming and mayhem may be appealing fantasies  to  employ in the disposal of one's obstacles but fantasies they must remain.]  However, in their defense, I submit that their less-than-ideal  responses to their issues reflect our own collective responses when faced with similar moments of pique, frustration, desperation or choice.  Knowing this, our regard to their actions may not change but, at least, they do not remain incomprehensible.

Having said more than a mouthful on the subject, my inner bitch rejoiced with the discovery of another formidale female in Cartoon Network of all places.

In The Grim Adventures of Billy and Mandy, the anti-heroine is also the heroine as all the other female character are either helpless or hapless or half-wits.  Plus, she plays with Death everyday.

Billy, the eponymous hero, for lack of a better description, is an idiot with a big nose.

Mandy hates everybody.  She was the one who fixed the limbo game that made the Grim Reaper their slave for life. Typical she is not – her eyebrows are perpetually furrowed, her mouth a constant arc of disdain or fury.and her favored hairstyle resembles horns.  Her personality is summed up in her statement (Wiki-culled) “I’m all for the abuse and exploitation of the stupid.”

A few nights ago, in the episode Pandora’s Lunch Box, Mandy utters another classic after being manipulated by a Dora the Explorer look-a-alike into setting free a host of plagues from a weird-looking lunch box – “Nobody tricks me into unleashing the plagues on humanity.  When the time come, I’ll do it on my own.”

As character, Mandy is totally subversive as she flouts every rule and every notion of what nice little girls should be – she’ll never have a kiddy product tie-up, unless it’s for Junior Chainsaws or Machetes.  In fact, she is an adult Bitch model is there was ever one – totally disinterested, quick to act,  quicker with the barbed repartee,  merciless in punishment and anonymous in altruism.  She represents Parents’ Worst Nightmare, not the least of whom are her own who cower before her.

I wouldn’t recommend The Grim Adventures of Billy and Mandy to your kids unless you plan on running a play-by-play commentary on Mandy and the idiots who inhabit Mandy’s world. But, hey, if you’re up to the challenge, it should be an interesting conversation.

At least it’s not another vapid reality show.

(I was planning to write something along the lines of “What Not to Say in the Middle of Fucking” but my partner dissuaded me from doing so and I was thrown in a loop as to what to write about next.  So for all the readers who are sick of the following topic, the following post is as much Eric’s fault as mine.)

Sometime a few weeks week, I crossed over.

Previously I could refer to myself (with integrity) as being in my “mid-thirties”.  Actually, I still could but not without transgressing the IX th Commandment.

These days, I’ll share the same age as my partner - so, for a month at least, I have to refrain from referring to him as the “older” one between us. 

Around this time, my sense of preservation compels me to turn from the fact that I’ve aged another year. However, neither threats nor pleas dissuade the people who know me from taking it upon themselves to constantly remind me of it and, inevitably, I end up with thoughts that about the future twined like worry beads around my mind.

Like marriage, for instance.

Not that marriage is something I dread like the proverbial ball and chain or an STD.  In fact, getting married is something I have seriously considered after more than four years of being together with someone as wonderful as my partner.

It is ironic then that, personally, I don’t believe in marriage.

I don’t believe that ceremonies or a piece of paper can bind two people together forever.

I don’t believe that it is the solution to a dysfunctional relationship.

I don’t believe that, as an institution, it is just reserved for certain genders.

I don’t believe in it as a rite of passage that I have to go through to perpetuate traditions that have no relevance to me.

Notwithstanding my disbelief (and sorry lack of funds) – let me just, for the record, say – I am going through it.  Why?  Because I love my partner and I’d do anything to make him happy.

He wants bling, flowers and the whole shebang.  I get to event-organize the program as only an anal-retentive personality can.  We’re still negotiating custody of the DJ’s booth: Eric’s afraid that I’ll churn out an exclusively (and eminently cheesy) OPM playlist while I’m concerned that if were to hand over the turntable to Eric, he’s going to make it a Mariah-fest (na-uh, not gonna happen). 

I know somebody will wonder how on earth two guys can get married in a country where a comprehensive anti-discrimination bill can’t even get passed for fear of being anathemized by the clergy. Well, as I remember it right in the catechism I memorized (yes, I was a geek in Catholic school – even passing Religion was a big deal for me) there is only one instance when the clergy is not the minister of the sacraments.  According to the catholic catechism, in the sacrament of matrimony, the minister is not the clergy officiating the ceremony but the couple exchanging their vows. The attending clergy merely as a witness.  And that’s how I plan to get around the loop – ironic, given their “love the sinner, hate the sin” schtick – but hey, if you can’t join them, beat them.

Part Doux – with insider dish.

The weather should have been my tip-off but Murphy’s Law (“If anything can possibly go wrong, it will”) was far from my thoughts.

We were headed into the maws of Celebrity Central.  But not without challenges.

Having no direct line to God or at least the gods at the Star Channel, just as I had feared, we had to stand in line.

For an hour.

In drizzling rain.

With other celebrity gawkers.

Me with my bad leg did not appreciate standing in line for an hour feeling like a well-cared for lawn. Na-uh.

The only place I could appreciate being at on a wind-driven rainy day was in bed but I valiantly tried to keep my claws and tongue sheathed as I could sense that my friend was trying desperately to rid me of my ennui. I didn’t want to be a buzz-kill (Pamatay Sigla) so I went along trying to make light of an awful situation.

Relief came when the conga-line was finally directed to begin snaking it’s way towards the studio entrance. In the downpour.

So this is how a studio looks like, I thought unimpressed.  Everything looked cut-down to human size. The PAs were handing out duckpin sized balloons on sticks that I guessed we’d be encouraged to wave – on cue - before, during and after a celebrity’s “performance”.  Will power prevented me from telling the PA outright that I was thankfully declining his invitation to be a trained monkey – I ducked behind my friend and let her carry the balloons meant for us two.

Seating.  Way up.  On rickety plywooded bleachers.  Nearer my God to Thee, I wanted to sing in my head as we headed to the top steps of the bleachers.  It got worse.

Obviously, more people in the studio would indicate the popularity of the show so while the actual seats were occupied in 2 seconds flat, the steps up the rickety plywooded bleachers were likewise offered to the more rabid fans with their banners proclaiming their love for their idol.  This meant, of course, that as an occupant of the highest seats I had three choices if an urge (e.g., hunger, barfing or pissing) seized me, I could: (a) jump down (not feasible because of my bad knee); (b) step on their heads or push them down creating a domino effect (I know it’s evil but, c’mon, it is tempting)  or (c) wade through exasperatedly while controlling my tongue from stabbing their excitement (Oh well).   I chose “c”, an hour into the show, when my bladder threatened to implode and inflict me with incontinence.

I waded down but was intimidated by the sheer numbers I had to wade through again on my way up. Which lead me to option (d) Stay on the floor.  Which I did.

For the next hour and a half.

I thought it was the lesser of two evils. Better than the screams of Mariel Rodriguez’ fans. Or the sight of their darkened butt cracks peeking through their too low-rise jeans.  I wish I was spared that sight but the manifestations of evil demand attention – wherever it manifests itself.

I appreciated the performaces of Gary V. and Charlie Green, the kid from Britain’s Got Talent.

The rest ran from cheesy to vile.

Captain Boom – Jon Mullaly a.k.a. Jon Avila in a superhero outfit.  Poor Jon – well if the money’s good. He was there in a promotional tie-up with an upcoming “fantaserye” – “Varga” (Vernie, the chanteuse taking up the cape?). Jon still looks cute, though, even with the fake abs on his costume.  (Note: I’ve seen Jon work-out at the gym where I used to work out at.  Although I am reasonably sure that he’s in good shape, I’m not 100% sure that he possesses the pecs and abs drawn on his costume. Maybe it’s the costume that antes up the cheesiness of his character – look at the second pic – he looks like he has “birthin’” hips.)

Today’s version of the 70’s Apat na Sikat – Christian Bautista, Erik Santos, Sarah Geronimo and Rachelle Ann Go.  Admittedly, they have talent but to sing their lungs out, literally, from week to week has to be downright wrong – can’t their managers negotiate a clause in their contracts to allow them to give their larynxes a rest once in a while? Or better wardrobes?

Ai-Ai in space-drag.  Ample support provided by a bevy of thunder thighs. ‘Nuff said.

They were celebrating Sarah’s birthday that day plus promoting her (then) upcoming movie with John Lloyd (anyone care to comment on how that movie fared at the tills?)  True to form, the creative director of the show decided on a Cotillion-inspired entree prior to Sarah’s actual number.  Unfortunately, Sarah almost suffered a Tara Reid-wardrobe malfunction when her heel caught the hem of her lace and yanked the top when she tripped.  Thankfully, the top held and her maiden-head saved. For now.

Piolo and Sam singing “New York, New York” with Richard Poon. That really went well with the audience…(people, I’m being ironic here if you haven’t caught the drift) The only redeeming factor was the cuteness of Piolo and Sam (I’m not saying anymore lest I get bitch-slapped with a libel suit).

The Gold number.  Inspired by the upcoming Olympics and the arrival of 2 former members of the 80s New Wave group Spandau Ballet - a showcase of the other (read: non-talented) hosts was presented cavorting to Gold (pampalubag-loob or consolation to their fans since these people could neither sing, dance or act with integrity).  I’m not putting up pictures for obvious reasons.  First up, a young love team – the guy was in tennis gear and serving up hits; the girl had the more embarassing duty – she was pantomiming swimming. If I had just tuned in, I might have mistaken her efforts for an interpretation of Rock Lobster by the B-52s. It was cringe inducing.  Others portrayed basketball players, volleyball players, fencers (?), boxers, judokans (incidentally, for me, the saving grace of the whole tableau as he was the cutest and could actually do round-houses).  I was waiting for their representation of the canoeing/kayaking, equestrian, sailing, rowing and triathlon events – none came.  I guess the equipment must have been a bitch to carry.

Despite my litany of complaints, though – I did manage some moments of enjoyment.  As when the the power was suddenly cut-off in the middle of the Gold pantomime. That was funny.  And I’m not being ironic.  It was just that the guys were so fricking into their roles (which, at least, didn’t require that they over-stretch themselves in the acting department) that you could actually feel their disappointment when their miming abilities were cut short by the power outage. As if doing good on this one number would be enough to justify their presence in limelight despite their obvious deficiencies in the talent area.

Speaking of ironies, the irony of a power outage in the network owned by the company supplying power to the Metro was not lost on the crowd.  One host even attempted to make light of the situation. Nobody dared utter ”systems loss“, though.  Too controversial, I guess.

I distinctly remember my last moment of enjoyment – seeing the studio fade into a rainy haze as we high-tailed it out of there.

In contrast to our group’s deliberate steps into the maw of an afternoon variety show, our steps from it were abrupt as it was brought on by my companions’ hunger pangs.  Leaving as we did could not have been more satisfying for me since I had breakfast and they had not.

I am right smack in the middle of my 52 days (cf. 52 Days) and I am currently going through the whole gamut of emotions from A to Ω.  It’s just bewildering and frustrating to say the least.  Like coitus interruptus.

As a consequence, my mind is kind of on-the-blink right now – my second to the last post is still waiting a conclusion and I can’t think of anything to write about except this notice for my horde of adoring fans (yes, all 7 of you) that my brain is on strike right.  I’d even welcome the stimulation of a brain-freeze if it’ll inspire me to write something.

I’ve nearly done everything to get me out of this funk but no luck..maybe next week. So until then…I’m off to 7-11..

Just got bad news and all I could think of is how much I want you by my side.

If you were here I know you’d listen and understand, things would not look so hopeless, I would not be so lost.

But you’re not here.

Basically if there’s something I think I need to change about myself is my inability to say “no” to people I like.  Hypothetically, if I were a girl, contraception would be a way of life for me.

Take for instance last Sunday.  All week I was looking forward to sleeping in on Sunday – the week previously I had a panic attack after gym.  I hadn’t had one for years and it kind of shook me up. But I had work so I went through the week and ended up on Friday celebrating the birthday of a friend.

The birthday had the requisite drinks – I can’t abide by beer so she thoughtfully served vodka cruisers to me which is like getting drunk on fruit juice.  Needless to say, I got drunk but since I have work on Satudays (see How To Spend Saturdays), I still had to drag my tired and still hung-over ass to work.  Since I couldn’t go to the gym in the state that I was that Saturday, I was planning to go the following day to sauna-off the 5% alcohol in my blood stream (really, I make a bad job of getting drunk).

So maybe it was the inebriation that caused me to agree to my friend’s plea that I accompany her to a live show on the Kapamilyachannel. Part of me felt like replying “Ok but I’ll be cutting you off from my life after this” but the natural sucker in me (alright, go ahead and see how many jokes you can make from the last phrase) instead asked “What time are we meeting up?”

Big mistake.

If there’s a quality I’d like to be known for, I’d want it to be for being punctual.  Whether I say I’ll be there at 5:30 am or 12 midnight, I’d kill myself to be there on time.  Sunday was no different.  I’d agreed to meet my friend at 8:30 am at the MRT station in Pasay.  I was there at 8:00 am.

Her first text message that morning at 8 am should have tipped me off – she said “The rain’s really pouring.” I refrained from texting back that I knew since I had just gone through it on my way to our meeting place. I backed off since I thought sarcasm that early in the morning was uncalled for. I merely replied by asking her if she was already on her way.  She said she was.

Actually, she said she was already near two more times before she finally texted me that she was already there.

Where we had not agreed to meet. It was 9:20 am.

My cup of bile runneth over but all I could manage to text to her was a trite “If we’re going to stand in line at the studio, I’d rather just go home.”

When we got to the studio, our other friend – the one who got the passes for the live show was miffed that we hadn’t arrived earlier.  In any other situation, I would have been apologetic. That day, I wasn’t.  For two reasons.  We were late through no fault of mine and because I knew instinctively why he wanted to come in early – so he could gawk at the stellar personalities ambling through.

Listen – by myself, I am likewise prone to gawk at stars but in a crowd of star-gawkers I am repulsed by the gawking.  Especially if I feel that the object of the gawking is a no-talent who’s only getting by via cuteness or some other attribute that had nothing to do with entertainment – at least not in the manner that entertainment is usually defined (I know, I am evil).

(End of Part Une – Part Doux with Pix)