In praise of 23 (sort of)

There’s an object lesson in twenty-three year olds that I’m not getting. What is it about that age that I’m unconsciously and inexplicably drawn to? Should I look back at my twenty-three year old self to find it? And what do I expect to find beyond unbridled sex, profligate drinking and generally irresponsible behavior? Some forgotten hurt or a life-altering experience perhaps?

T.H. White wrote that a woman’s interesting period happens in her 20s when she is just getting a sense of her self. A woman-child untouched by life’s realities with a hopeful heart that’s yet to be broken by cruel men, even crueler women, facial lines and time.

Twenty-three year olds always seem poised to go somewhere gay and exciting and terribly exclusive. And it’s true too. They are, after all, on the cusp of life itself and all the joyful, grievous, dreadful things it brings.

So here’s to all you pretty young things. May you stay 23 forever.

I done a very bad thing…

So there I was staring morosely out the window, vaguely hearing my boss as she explained how an incensed client from New York called our Asia-Pacific CEO to complain about the “incident” in the Philippines.

I wondered if my body mass could actually break the plate glass window and propel me outward and on to eternity in one go.

“So that’s how bad it is, Joyce.…”

For two weeks I’ve been thinking of a worse adjective for “mistake” other than “egregious”.

It’s sheer bullheadedness paired with a bad temper—a winning combination that my mother is certain would get my face blown off in a motoring altercation. It very nearly happened by the way. Twice. Both times with a .45.

But I’m tired of staring down at proverbial .45s whether they’re Smith & Wesson or a burly American shrew.

And I truly am sorry for letting my anger get the best of me that Saturday.

So tonight I’m going to write that letter of apology and plot how I can make amends.

And then I’m going to drink myself to smithereens.

Huh?

Had the weirdest dream. I dreamt that Elvira Manahan and Behn Cervantes were star-crossed lovers a la Hihintayin Kita Sa Langit. In my dream, Elvira Manahan was also Ava Gardner and she was always wearing a flimsy white pantulog. You know, like what Elizabeth wore as she triumphantly watched the fiery end of the Spanish Armada.

Anyway Elvira-slash-Ava died, still wearing that infernal pantulog, and as Behn Cervantes carried her across a desolate crag my lucid self interrupted, “E teka lang, di ba bakla si Behn Cervantes?! Ben with an “h” nga e!” And then I woke up.

PUTANGINA LATE NA 'KO SA PLANNING!

Postscript: I was at the Inquirer later that afternoon where I bumped into Elvira’s granddaughter, Juana Manahan. Double weird.

Pimp my pahina

It began innocently enough. With one or two stories that smelled faintly of pakiusap. But as the months went by, the Sunday Inquirer Magazine seemed to have evolved into a PR practitioner’s wet dream. And today’s issue takes the cake. Six beaming wannabe makeup artists in matching Maybelline shirts are on the cover! Whatthefuck?! And the cover “story” is barely-disguised PR trash. Why the hell did they have to make Leica Carpo publisher?

O Alya where art thou and thy editorial integrity? Oh I know! You’re at a Moto party pimping the latest Razr.

Bwiset! Makabalik na nga lang sa Panorama!

I love Mr. Chips

As a former choir geek I remember singing “You And I” and “Fill the World with Love”. I didn’t know that they were part of a movie musical until today when I saw Goodbye Mr. Chips on TCM. It’s a good movie—smart dialogue and touching in the right places without being too maudlin. When it came out in 1969, many viewers and critics were unimpressed with the soundtrack and were especially confused with the fact that the songs just played in the background as the characters’ inner monologue—or inner sing-along, if you will—a clear departure from the style of musicals at that time, in which actors suddenly burst into song mid-dialogue. While I have nothing against spontaneous musical numbers (I do it all the time), I personally thought Goodbye Mr. Chips’ rather subdued musical style was appropriate to the simple, quiet nature of the story. I would’ve been disturbed if Peter O’ Toole’s character suddenly let rip. (Though it would’ve been okay with Petula Clark’s character. She is, after all, Petula Clark.)

That said, I think I shall add Goodbye, Mr. Chips to my list of favorite movies and I look forward to seeing it again—at my favorite deebeedee- deebeedee store. Hehe.

Chips: Is my wife here?

Ursula: Wife? Which wife, darling?

Chips: She was called Katherine Bridges.

Ursula: Katie? Of course she's here! Did you say 'wife,' darling?

Chips: Yes.

Ursula: Well, that would make you her husband, wouldn't it?

Chips: Yes, it would.

Ursula: Then she's not here, darling. She's nowhere near the place.

Gay cologne

My Evil Sister gave me this Marc Jacobs cologne called Ivy. And because I am really a bakla disguised as a lesbian, I refer to it as my Ivy Violan cologne. Ivy is one of those he-she type colognes much like CK One. Which leads me to wonder: why aren’t there colognes made specifically for gay men? Below are some fragrance ideas for gay Pinoys.

*My apologies for the crude Photoshop job. Kanina ko lang natutunan paano mag-insert ng text.

For those special nights na meron.

Mmmm…anino pa lang, ulam na.

Kung nasiyahan ka sa booking, ito ang maaaring iregalo sa kanya pagkatapos.

For cocktail parties, art openings, yugyugan sa Embassy, rampa sa Rockwell. Shala!