I was having lunch with several of my female officemates when one of them exclaimed, “OMG! That guy’s so hot!” and pointed out the window.
Walking on the sidewalk was this Caucasian guy in white sando, cap and jogging pants. He was giving the sweltering heat of summer some stiff competition. (Speaking of stiff….) He had a lean frame, but muscular in the right places. And his waist was, shet, balingkinitan. Suddenly we all forgot what we ordered and feasted on the sight outside. But then he turned the corner and disappeared from out sightlines.
Cut to:
After lunch, I excused myself because I had to go to the bank to deposit money. The guard gave me a number, and I sat down to wait my turn.
In came the same Yummy-Caucasian-Guy-We-Saw-During-Lunch, got a number, and sat a couple of seats away from me. *swoon!* I hurriedly placed my phone on silent and surreptitiously snapped a shot (or two) of him. Tah-dah!
Nainip ang loko at umalis bago siya—o ako—ay matawag sa counter.
Yun lang. Kababawan lang. Paminsan-minsan, may kababawan din naman dito sa Show, noh.
“I used to be obsessed with happy endings and fairy tales, and I still love those movies that give me hope or make me escape into my fantasies. But more and more, I’m liking the stamp of reality that feels really pertinent and accessible to my own life.” – Drew Barrymore
* * * * *
I too used to believe in fairy tales, especially with love stories. But the problem with those stories is that they end in a passionate kiss, a tight embrace, with blazing sunset, swelling score and a long, slow fade-out.
None of them bothered with what happens after the credits roll.
Sure, in those romantic movies the lovers go through hell, evil stepmothers and a gazillion hurdles just to end up together in the end. The usual assumption is, after going through all that, they can face any and everything that will come their way. Yeah. Riiight.
The thing is, real life doesn’t have fade-outs and a swell soundtrack to accompany you. Romance and monogamy require a commitment that’s forever being challenged and necessitates continuous renewal. Unless one or the both of you are pangit; then you have Andrew E. to thank for that.
More than one person has demonized me as an unromantic love-Scrooge, a cynical loveless singleton. I’m not really bothered. More than anything, that view shows more the ignorance of those people—ignorant of who I really am and ignorant of how the world works. Okay, maybe ignorant is not the word; perhaps the more accurate phrase is “willful disregard of what is not rosy and beautiful and full of chirpy-cheep-cheeping tweety birds.”
It’s really a case of differences in points of view. Romantics seem to hold on to the idea of forever. I don’t believe in forever; as any scientist can tell you, there is no forever. Even the whole universe will end with a massive collapse and a bang. And even the Church acknowledges Love’s limit: ‘til Death do us part. Hello, Death.
For me, what’s more romantic is the idea that two people stay committed in spite of the fact that there is no forever, that they stay committed given the realities they face on a day-to-day basis. Commitment is hard work and romance needs to get real for it to really last long. Take note, I said long. I didn’t say forever.
So who is this “iamdemirey”? He added me up on Twitter today, so I looked him up.
No info about him, except being a newbie. But what was interesting was the list of people he was following on Twitter:
Some of the names include: Piolo Pascual. Mo Twister. Paolo Bediones. Jodi Sta. Maria. Gladys Reyes. KC Concepcion. Angelica Panganiban. Heart Evangelista. Kris Aquino-Yap. Christine Reyes. Isa Calsado. Anne Curtis…. And so much more.
WTF. So why am I suddenly in this roster of celebrities? Oh, yeah. Someone did accuse me of being a gay online celebrity. *toink!*
Bwhahaha! Laff trip ito! Aminin, achieve-na-achieve ang comedy’ng ito! Writer-director Chris Martinez has always made dialogue that’s hilarious yet sound like they are said by real people, no matter how absurd the situation.
“Here Comes The Bride” trailer:
My LOL line from the trailer: “Ninang, there’s a gay man inside my body!”
(*This is my nod-to-Madonna episode, coming after Glee.)
Most of my lessons in life, I got from songs while growing up. Whenever I was troubled I turned to the radio for solace.
Look around, everywhere you turn is heartache, it’s everywhere that you go. You try everything you can to escape the pain of life that you know.
Break-up songs, sad songs, angry songs, moving on songs, refusing to move on songs—whatever I felt, there were songs that fit the moment. Or I used a song as an antidote to break a particular moment, especially if the emotions were already too much for me to handle.
And I could find them all on the radio, flipping through stations. I started with American Top 40 with Casey Kasem on AM radio; I had a small transistor radio then. Then when AT40 moved to FM, I followed it there. My transistor radio was replaced with a bigger one. Then I moved on up to an AM/FM cassette recorder, a one-speaker model that was the precursor to the boom boxes.
I remember hours lost just letting my mind wander as the song enveloped me. Often I’d imagine me singing the song in a jam-packed concert—I think that’s what first fueled my desire to wear my heart out on my sleeve while performing before a huge number of people.
When all else fails and you long to be something better than you are today, I know a place where you can get away. It’s called a dance floor, and here's what it’s for.
I was already working in advertising when I discovered the joys of dance clubs. I started going with my gay and fag hag officemates to Zoo in Malate (which is actually a bar, but people would dance at the available spaces in between tables). Then we discovered Giraffe, where we mastered the Macarena while dancing on top of tables.
At that time, I was still very conscious of my dancing. Unless there was a specific choreography, I wasn’t sure of what to do with my hands and feet.
When Giraffe closed, the pink people moved back to Malate. Joy and Mint became the places to dance and get lucky. I was never one to get lucky; I was too conscious to dance, what more hook up? I didn’t really frequent those places. I’d be at Pepe & Pilar next door, watching with envy the cool guys who’d fearlessly walk up to the metal door of Joy and disappear inside.
Then I got tired and stopped going to the scene for a few years.
When I returned to Malate, the old haunts were gone. There was a new one, a very small, very cramped, but very jumping place—Bed.
So come on, vogue! Let your body move to the music, hey, hey, hey! Come on, vogue! Let your body go with the flow, you know you can do it.
Because Bed was so jam-packed, one couldn’t dance so I learned how to dance by bobbing one’s head and shaking one’s booty while standing in place. It started from there. Then I’d see these guys dancing so sexy, yet seemingly staying in one place. I started copying their moves. But after a while, I realized my body had a mind of its own. So I just let my moves evolve.
It makes no difference if you’re black or white, if you’re a boy or a girl. If the music’s pumping, it will give you new life. You’re a superstar! Yes, that’s what you are. You know it.
The first time someone approached me when he saw me dancing, I felt a rush like no other. It was a feeling of power. Ang haba ng hair ko!
But of course, that didn’t happen every night I danced in Bed. And the less it happened, the unhappier I got. Until one night while dancing near the ledge, I looked up at the dancing lights crisscrossing the giant mirror ball and had a “Eureka!” moment. I had made dancing a tool for hooking up. I had to find once more the joy of dancing. That night, with the ball spinning over my head, I decided I was just going to dance the night away. (Of course, I ended up going home alone that night.)
The bigger Bed got, the more I went there not really to hook-up (it rarely happens really, I’m no spring chicken) but to just dance and lose myself in the music. For several hours, I can be in a world of my own where everything’s great and happy and I’m fabulous and beautiful and rejection and loss are nowhere in sight.
Beauty’s where you find it, not just where you bump and grind it. Soul is in the musical—that’s where I feel so beautiful, magical, life’s a ball, so get up on the dance floor!
But after a while, things start to feel the same.
* * * * *
P.S. – Below is Madonna’s live performance of “Vogue” in her Sticky & Sweet Tour. I particularly like the new choreography. For me this song is one of the highlights of her concert.
When I was in advertising, I was exposed to a lot of award-winning ads from all over the world.
This is Manny Villar’s ad “Scroll”:
First time I saw it, I already felt uncomfortable. I knew I saw a very similar ad from before. This was confirmed when I saw The Daily Tribute online article.
This political advertisement from Argentina won the silver lion in the Cannes Lions Contest 2006:
Is it plagiarism? A big, fat CHECK! The execution—scroll down, then reverse to scroll up—is exactly the same, while the message is very similar (except for a change in language). Add to the fact that the two ads are in the same category (political/public awareness), and the inevitable conclusion is that it’s unlikely that the similarities can be chalked up to mere coincidence. The team that created Manny’s ad had committed a mortal sin in the advertising world.
So what’s wrong if it’s not an original idea? It’s intellectually dishonest. It’s a stolen idea and execution. So it appears that there are members of Manny’s team who do not mind being lazy at their jobs. If that’s the kind of company Manny keeps, then good luck to us all if he wins.
That’s why I’m sure I won’t vote for him.
* * * * *
Several weeks ago it was Manny Pangilinan and his speech to the graduates. That makes it two Mannys stealing other people’s stuff. Pacquiao, our eyes are on you!
Because he’s a fellow Fabcaster and I love this guy for his openmindedness and levelheadedness, and his sense of humor that goes from silly to wicked, and his dumb-blonde act that always cracks me up, and his zest for Life and the pleasures It offers. He’s a great guy to have on your team, and I’m so excited for his new blog that I am plugging it here.
Now, now, Tony. You don’t need to feel any preyshyure. Rhayt. Naow.
Visit and follow Tony’s brand new blog. Click here.
(P.S. – No, I’m not bothered by the similarities of the banners of our blogs. His has 36 pesos; I only have 10. Besides, my banner will change once the eleventh season rolls in. So there.)
Thanks to my friend Poma, I was able to watch this brain-melting parody of Lady Gaga & Beyonce’s “Telephone.”
I have to hand it to Lady Gagita and Haronce for their efforts. The set-up! The props! The costumes! The sheer chutzpa! And using half a headset instead of a telephone receiver as headdress is, uhm, sakit sa ulo!
Watch this once. I don’t think you’ll wanna watch it again.
Then again, you might be a glutton for punishment.
Two cases of Soju (original daw), at 20 bottles per case, check. 30 shot glasses, 15 blue and 15 clear, check. Three bottles of wine from Gibbs, presents given to him but he can’t consume by himself, so he donated them for the party, check. Six thousand plus pesos for the apartment suite, check.
At Saturday 4pm, I had the venue and drinks covered for the Fabcasters Summer Party. But I also had work that afternoon, so with much reluctance I left the party venue to go to a boxing match.
There were 6 undercards plus the main event. We started at 5:45pm; by the time the main card was about to start, it was already close to 10pm. Tired and quite hungry, I asked my boss if I could leave once the main event (which was also the last fight for that night) started; she nodded her approval. I passed by Yellow Cab to get me some hot wings. So by the time I had arrived at the party, I was hungry, tired and… aghast at the number of people inside the suite.
Okay, so in the official Facebook invite there were 41 “attending” and 22 “maybe.” Still, I’m so used to people backing out at the last minute. But even outside the hallway, I could hear the noise of more than 5 dozen gay men talking, chatting, laughing and being animated, thanks to the spirit of the glassful of Soju.
Inside I went from kitchen area to living room to the small bedroom then finally the master bedroom—which was plunged in darkness. Hmmm, okaaay. There was a group of people squatting on the floor and whispering in low voices; had there been chanting, I would have wondered if I had stumbled upon a séance.
A little past midnight, a few guests who had stepped out for a bit came back with bad news: the management had received complaints from other guests about our noise level. A few minutes later I stepped out of our room to appease two ladies from the front desk who personally had to appeal to us to keep the noise level low; furthermore, they said that they never allowed parties to go on after midnight. I promised them I’d do something about the noise.
When I stepped back into the room, I was weighing the options: continue and just let the people have fun, or risk being asked to halt the party? In the end I chose to play bad-cop and kept going from group to group, shushing people and reminding them to keep the noise level at a tolerable level. Moving around and barely stopping, keeping people quiet—major stress plus major tiredness plus I wasn’t enjoying the people’s company plus people were parading shots of Soju in front of me and me just chugging them all in plus when the Soju was gone they started serving vodka—in short, around 3pm I don’t remember anymore what triggered it, but I found myself hugging the toilet bowl and throwing up. I remember TBR and AJ helping me and taking care of me. I think Tony also lent a helping hand. Someone slipped a bottle of Gatorade onto my hand and I chugged it down. Jusko! Parang balik-high school ang feeling ko! Yung pakiramdam mong tatanga-tanga ka pa sa pag-inom at hindi mo pa matancha kung saan ang kaya mo.
They helped me to bed and I blacked out.
The next morning I woke up with my head throbbing and the half-finished bottle of Gatorade still on my hand. The rest of the guys ate the free breakfast for four, but I couldn’t bear the thought of putting anything in my mouth—I had a feeling I’d throw it up immediately. True enough, after a few minutes, I had to go back to the toilet and throw up the remaining Gatorade that I drank upon waking up.
If there’s one thing I really hate, it’s that feeling when you still need to throw up, but there’s nothing in your stomach so what’s coming out is really stomach acid? Ugh. It’s the best feeling in the world; it’s the best feeling to make me swear to myself that, “Never again! Never mix Soju and vodka—never!”
Still I heard that people had a great time. Thank you to my fellow Fabcasters for a wonderful party. Pardon my being killjoy and shushing everyone the whole night, and our apologies to the guests who couldn’t sleep because of our noise. Oh well. That’s the last time we’ll ever book that place for a party.
God, I still feel a slight throbbing pain in my forehead.
This weekend the Fabcasters are again throwing another party. This time it’s to celebrate summer and to say farewell to a couple of people. The drinks will flow once more, lips will be loosened for talk and who knows what else. New faces will mingle with the usual suspects, new connections will be made, and old ones will be rekindled or reduced.
And while everyone else will be having a blast and happily hooking up (with an occasional fail or two, maybe even some tears will be shed?) I’d end up feeling like I always do at our parties—a happy loser. Happy because the party is a success; loser because, well, I’m going to be too busy being a host to really enjoy the party. The bittersweet irony of it all isn’t lost to me.
Let’s call him A, and he’s a security guard at our condo building.
Of the six or seven employed to provide security in our building, he was the cutest, face-wise. Moreno-skinned, he had that deadly combination of baby-faced innocence and openness mixed with an air of probinsyano eagerness. It also helped a lot that he was the only one who had a well-built body. Sure, he too has the beginnings of a tummy, but from his muscular arms and well-developed chest you can see that he had lifted weights before, a fact he confirmed just recently.
But I’m getting ahead of myself.
I was never the sociable tenant. They would greet me, “Good morning, sir!” or “Good evening, sir!” and I’d just smile, nod or wave at them, and head for the stairs or elevator.
A was rarely assigned to stay at the reception area. Still, whenever he’d see me, he’d smile and greet, “Good morning, sir!” just like everybody else. He already caught my attention the first time I laid eyes on him, but I’d return his good mornings with just a smile and a wave.
This went on for months.
About two weeks ago I went down at around 8:30pm to buy something at the nearest convenience store. Lo and behold, A was behind the reception desk. He smiled his usual smile, I smiled back, and then….
“Sir, nagwo-work-out ba kayo?”
Hu-well, hu-well, hu-well. It seems he’s been keeping an eye on my body as well—I must commend him for his vigilance. I stopped, smiled at him and said, “Oo, pero bukas pa. Eh ikaw?”
“Sir, noon sa probinsya, nagbubuhat ako sa gym namin doon. Pero natigil na nga eh!” he added with a slight frown.
“Mukhang okey pa naman katawan mo, ha!” my smile grew wider. And just before I could stop myself, I winked at him.
As I walked out of the reception area, A followed me with his gaze, smiling the whole time. And he didn’t break his gaze until I cleared the corner; all the while, we were smiling at each other.
Hmmm. Methinks I will need more security soon. Hehehe.
Here’s something fresh and new: a blogger who wants people to read his sex stories.
Hihihi.
As requested, ladies (ay, meron nga ba?) and gentlemen, please welcome Soltero and his Innuendos. His blog is mostly sex in Southern California. Wow, stateside landian galore, landian cornucopia, landian fatale. Hahaha! His writing style is breezy, switching from English to Filipino, giving it a very informal feel. I’m not too fond of the frequent use of ellipses (you know, the dot-dot-dots, as in…), but hey, that’s your blog, Soltero. Besides, I know of another blogger whose use of ellipses is even more frighteningly frequent, his blog reads like the transcript of Kuya Cesar’s radio show. Pramis.
Migs and I were discussing recently that sex sells. But as Von Draye bemoans: “For some reason, my sex stories blogsite only have 7 followers, while this wholesome blog of mine have 40+ followers, are people becoming more wholesome?!” So why do some sexually explicit blogs enjoy lots of readership, while others equally explicit (or maybe even more) do not?
Uhm, I really don’t know.
On the Internet, one needs to deliver the goods. Content is king. No matter how many links you get, if your content does not deliver, then people won’t come back.
So what makes for “sticky” writing? Nope, not more cum (get your mind off the gutter, honey). Another blogging goddess, Tristan Tales, offers a tip: Keep it light. Keep it simple. Write about what matters to you.
It really does take some skill, writing and keeping them coming back. While content is king, I believe the best, really sticky blogs are a combination of content and form. I also noticed that if the blogger is anonymous (no clear face pic, pseudonym), it helps if the blogger has an intriguing persona. If the blogger is out to the whole cyberspace (face and body pic, real name), then it helps if the guy is really hot—even if his subjects and verbs disagree all the time, and grammatical errors are the norm, he’ll still have followers! (No, I am sooo not referring to him, silly.)
So dear bloggers, just keep blogging. Hey, I’ve been blogging for six years and I have 177 official followers. The Goddess Tristan started blogging much later than me but in a few months overtook me and gathered 191 official followers (and counting). I’m not jealous, I’m proud. Go for it, Tristan gurl. (Hoy bakla, may utang ka pang kuwento sa akin, hah. Sino na ngaaaaa?! Hahaha.)
Okay, that’s it! Tama na, sobra na, quota na. Naku, ayokong maging future of The McVie Show eh magmukhang Bloggers’ Home Shopping Network, ahahaha!
Out of the blue I received an email from The Occupant, a long-time reader of my blog. He had a blog before but stopped. Now after several years working and living in one of the islands down south, he’s back in the metro and also back into blogging. He requested that I link his new blog, Room 401, to mine (and quid pro quo, said he was linking mine to his).
He says he wants to share his story to a larger audience, and therefore has approached me. By asking the help of an “online celebrity,” he hopes his new blog will get an increase in traffic. He also mentioned that he has had trouble sustaining his previous blog. Perhaps the increase in attention may force him to sustain his newly erected blog—I guess he sees my endorsement and the increase in traffic as something akin to Blog Viagara. Mr. Occupant dear, nothing I nor anyone else do can and will make your blog sustain its erection; it’ll have to be you continuously stroking your blog alive.
But if you want to have an idea of how to sustain your blog, then let me use myself as an example and hope you get some things out of it.
First, ask yourself: really now, why blog? Because what will motivate you to maintain your blog will depend largely on why you’re blogging in the first place. When I started blogging, it was because I wanted to show people that a “diary” online isn’t the same as a diary in the Anne Frank way, simply because it’s for public consumption. Thus, anything written there is really for show—and so I named my blog accordingly. But after a while, I changed my mind. I concentrated more just blogging on things that I found funny or entertaining. More importantly, I realized that blogging helped sharpen my writing skills. So now I try as much as possible to have one blog entry a day just to flex my writing muscles.
If you want to be a writer, then write. But the best advise on writing I got was from Stephen King. He said if you want to be a writer, live first then write. Because the most affecting stuff are the ones closest to you. That’s when you do your best writing.
However, be open to the possibility that your reasons for blogging may change. Go with the flow and embrace change. There may also come a day when you find no reason to be blogging any further. Remember that blogging is a voluntary effort. You owe it to no one but yourself what happens to your blog.
For now this Show is still relevant to me. The moment it ceases to be, that’s when I’ll walk away from it. But given that I’ve had this going for six year already, I guess I have no plans of shutting it down yet. I just need to get a life more.
So to the Occupant of Room 401, good luck and get out of your room more. So you’ll have more to say when you come back in.
According to the publishers, it’ll be available starting 01 May 2010. That’s Labor Day in the Philippines. It’ll be in major bookstores by mid-May. I think there will be a formal book launch, with matching book signing. I’m not too sure, okay? I just follow their instructions, hehehe. I’ll keep you guys posted here.
Here at last is the long-delayed second part of our Fabcast, wherein we discussed a letter sent to Gibbs from this guy who, after experiencing his first gay heartache, found his world topsy-turvy.
While I was listening to part two, I realized that there are a lot of songs about breaking up and moving on. In fact, isn’t there a saying that when you experience either a newfound romance or a heartbreaking split, don’t all the songs on the radio seem suddenly, eerily relevant?
Since the Fabcasters and our rambunctious peanut gallery were all giving examples and stories, the opportunity to turn this into a musical Fabcast was too tempting for me to resist. This is the first time that it took me more than a week to finish producing a Fabcast (well, there were days when I couldn’t work on it at all). There were times when I’d fixate on a certain song (for example, it had to be “How Do You Mend A Broken Heart” or not at all!); I would Limewire it just to get a copy. While waiting for the song to download, production had to stop.
But I really enjoyed challenging myself in producing this one.
Music credits (in alphabetical order, according to act): Alanis Morrisette, “You Ought To Know” Alicia Keys, “Doesn’t Mean Anything” BeeGees, “How Can You Mend A Broken Heart?” Boy George and Pet Shop Boys, “The Crying Game” Craig Armstrong, “Your Song (instrumental)” Dead Or Alive, “Brand New Lover” Journey, “Be Good To Yourself” Kelly Clarkson, “Since U Been Gone” R.E.M., “Everybody Hurts” Whitney Houston, “The Greatest Love Of All”
P.S. – I wasn’t such a big fan of Kelly Clarkson’s song, but when I was listening to someone recount how he moved on, the words “I’m so moving on, yeah, yeah!” just leapt into my mind and refused to budge. So I just had to use the song. Now it’s my most favorite part of the Fabcbast.
The following video had me laughing uncontrollably with tears in my eyes here at my desk on a Monday morning. It’s only one minute and forty-five seconds long, so watch it until the end. Your patience will be rewarded.
I find it valiant what the kid did to keep his dignity—and his diapers—on. He can teach Janet Jackson a thing or two about professionalism, showmanship and how to handle a wardrobe malfunction. (Warning: the audio is basag, so turn down the volume level.)
(Read the following below only AFTER you watch the video.)
What really gets me every time I watch it—and my eyes turn all misty again—is when the wig falls off. You see, the video is a great lesson on Humor 101. Humor rests on the incongruous, and the more incongruous a situation gets, the more humorous it becomes. With every slip, the incongruity escalates; the wig tops (pun intended) it all. That kills it.
The McVie is not for everybody; that much is clear to me. I am also not a big fan of being mysterious; with my blog, my life is somewhat an open book, or at least an easy-to-read condensed version. Yes, there is editing—there will always be editing—but even a stranger can get a general idea of the public McVie.
Thus when I meet someone new and I want him to get an instant snapshot of who I am, I point him to the Show. And if what they see freaks them out, well, what can I do? If this Show, this presentation of who I am, is already stress-inducing for him, I wonder how he’ll react to the behind the scenes?
And yet, I think it’s fairly safe for me to say that I don’t know of anyone, neither family nor friend, who has really seen all of me in my behind the scenes; glimpses yes, and perhaps a guided tour to certain areas backstage. It is something that not everyone should see, only a privileged few. And maybe that’s the thing I need to remind myself.
Not everyone deserves a backstage pass to The McVie Show. But not everyone who gets handed a backstage pass by me will want to take a peek either.
Growing up with strict Catholic parents, we were told that Holy Week was a time for prayer and reflection. As such, we kids shouldn’t be so active or so noisy. We were admonished: if you get a cut or wound during Holy Week, it will not heal until after Easter. Obviously it’s to discourage us from any strenuous play. Silence was imperative. We weren’t even allowed to listen to any fast-tempo music.
So now that it’s Holy Week again, I’ve decided to observe it the way we used to when we were kids. I will be silent, I will kneel down and prey. Yes, I will be hitting the bathhouses this Holy Week.
They’re open, even on the most holy of holidays. The owners must have realized that there’s an untapped market of gay men who failed to arrange a trip to Puerta Gaylera. Now we have the gay equivalent of the Bisita Iglesia, except that it’s Bisita Karnal. Get ready to do the stations of the cocks. Aye, men.
Nainip ang loko at umalis bago siya—o ako—ay matawag sa counter.
