30 January 2012

Of an Art Form and Its Gods

When news broke that the Fashion Institute of the Philippines (FIP) was opening its doors in Cebu, Lead Character got excited. Hell, he got more excited about it than when he learned Krispy Kreme was finally opening branches in the city. Lead Character isn't really big on fashion--he's even awkward when it comes to it--but he supports the industry wholeheartedly, and hopes that one day local designers' works are the sartorial preference of everyone.



Last night, FIP had a grand launching show and party at the Ayala Terraces. Lead Character was lucky to have gotten an invitation to the event from his dear friend, and FIP alumnus, Punky. The event was a lot more enjoyable than Lead Character had expected. It was the first time he'd ever witnessed a live runway fashion show, which turned out to be more than just that. It was pageantry infused with rock music, opera, latin beats, art, six-pack abs, indulgence, wine, amuse-bouche binging, fashion, and six-pack abs.

For Lead Character, the show was such a success that he even considered enrolling at the FIP, perhaps to make bags.

Here are a few of Lead Character's favorite things about the evening.

Catering from SumoSam, which was fantastic.
FIP President Renee Salud's opening remarks, which was short.
Lead Character hates long speeches that no one really listens to.
That guy.
In the spirit of gender equality, that girl.
This shot, because it makes Lead Character laugh.
That guy was up there for a full minute. True story!
The soprano singer, who isn't in the photo above.

28 January 2012

Spanish Plum


short fiction

Even though you were technically my second boyfriend, and the seventh man I’ve been in bed with, you were my first of many things. First real love, first meeting with the parents, first live-in arrangement, first (and only) abortion, among other firsts. You were practically my first glimpse, corny as it sounds, of eternity.

We first met on a rainy August afternoon. August 11th, 2003, I remember. My boss couldn’t meet you due to an impromptu lunch meeting with execs from Manila so he asked me to meet with you quickly, check your mood boards, and then reschedule your meeting with my boss for some time after. You were twenty minutes late, and you apologized incessantly. I didn’t mind because you were soaking wet from the rain and your eyes made my knees wobble. You have the kindest eyes I’ve ever seen: big, round, and hazel because of your Spanish blood, as you later explained to me—which makes me want to ask now: how exactly Spanish are you? You last name is Lam-ang. It doesn’t sound Spanish at all. At least, not for me. And I’ve met your parents. They were both from Butuan, none of whom has a hint of Spanish blood. I wish during the two years that we were together I was able to ask you if you were adopted or an illegitimate child, but I was always afraid you would flare up again.

You got pissed after I told you my boss couldn’t make it, which made you even more attractive to me. I always had this thing for pumped-up gentlemen. Of course, you didn’t tell me you were pissed, and you did your best to hide it, but all your uncontrollable hissing was very effectual. And I, pathetic single woman, couldn’t help but appease you. So I told you I loved your presentation, and that I could actually make decisions for my boss so your pitch was as good as approved. It lightened your mood and it pleased me. I wanted to see you again.

I saw you again the week after, when you met with my boss in his office. Your meeting ended pretty well and your pitch, as I had promised it, was approved. On your way out, you passed by my desk, and you asked me out. I was on cloud nine.

Our first date went so well that I felt right then that you were the one, the man I was going to spend the rest of my life with. Perhaps you felt the same because you asked me out again even before our date was over. And I guess I should carry the burden of the blame. I pretended to love Stanley Kubrick. You were a huge Kubrick fan and I took advantage of it. So we talked primarily of A Clockwork Orange and Full Metal Jacket, as though they were as simple as the weather. I never told you that the only reason I’d seen those movies is that my boss is a huge Kubrick fan himself and he made me watch them. This led me to believe that your pitch was approved not because of my urging but because of the shared fandom you had with Sir Larry.

I loved Sir Larry as a boss. I ended up as more than just his PA but a best friend as well. And I should say that much of how we turned out at first was also because of him. He enjoyed seeing us together, so he made sure I got to spend time with you as much as possible.

So this led us to our first night together. After three weeks of dinners out and cups of coffee and Kubrick marathons at your place, I put out—the longest that I ever held out for a guy. Before you, I slept with men on the first and only date; I never dated the same guy twice. There’s no denying that you were indeed special. There was something about your love for the cinema, your passion for your job as an account executive/copywriter with that now-defunct advertising firm, and your self-proclaimed Spanish blood that made me want you to get to know me better, to appreciate me. So I put out that night, and I felt like I was losing my virginity again. I was nervous as hell. But you, damn you, made me feel so special, so appreciated. That night I knew that I was falling deeper and deeper, and I got scared.

I got less scared, though, when we made love again. And again. And again. And all that fear diminished completely when we started to do it almost on a daily basis. So after three months of going out, all I could think of was having sex with you. Sometimes I’d get wet while at work thinking about having sex with you. And I’m very sorry but I never told you this: I got so horny one time in the office that I fucked the janitor. It was an impulse thing. I was longing for you but you were in Baguio that week for a conference.

This had been quite acknowledged between us, but I have to tell you again: I loved your cock. It’s red and shiny, its head plump and healthy like a sineguelas, and its shaft a fat, crooked thing that felt so good inside me. And I made the stupid mistake of saying it out loud. “Your cock head is like a sineguelas.” Secretly, I thought that was the only Spanish in you. It made you laugh then, but it started the euphemism that you so enjoyed saying over and over.

Do you want sineguelas after dinner?

Come to my place for lunch. Have some sineguelas.

Sineguelas for breakfast?

And sineguelas it was: morning, noon, and night. I especially loved it when you plowed into me like a jackhammer. You were the first guy to ever make me scream with pleasure. In fact, if I’m not mistaken, you were the first man to ever give me an orgasm, and multiple orgasms at that. And it wasn’t just about the sineguelas. When you ate my pussy it drove me crazy. Your tongue knew its way in and out and I always ended up looking for something to grab. I would pull on the blanket, throw pillows around, pull on my hair and squeeze my own tits, because that was how wild you drove me. I probably came a million times the whole time I was with you, because you never rested until I fell unconscious from sheer exhaustion, and by then I’d already cum about ten times.

On our fifth month together, while you were driving me back to my apartment, you told me you loved me. I cried. You may not have known this, but I cried. I didn’t tell you back that I loved you, too, but when I got into my room I cried really hard. I cried so hard I started masturbating just as hard. Because I did love you, too. I was just too petrified to say it back.

A few days after you professed your love, I finally found the courage to tell you. You looked so happy back then that you asked me to move in with you. I said yes. Little did I know that saying yes was the start of the terror I never thought you were capable of causing me.

At first things weren’t that bad. The sex was still fantastic. And it gave us the freedom to do whatever we wanted. You would fuck me on the kitchen sink, on the kitchen table, on the coffee table in the living room, in the laundry room, on the bathroom floor. You even enjoyed fucking me in the terrace noontimes on Sundays, because the apartment building was usually empty on Sundays as your neighbors always went to the mall. But I do remember a couple of times hearing some cheering from the opposite apartment while you fucked me doggy-style.

I loved it when you fucked me doggy-style. Your sineguelas hit my G-spot quite deftly while you rubbed my clit with your fingers. It totally drove me crazy that was why I didn’t mind being watched.

But then things started to go downhill. Probably it was because we were getting too familiar that you started showing your true colors. You started to get honest, and for the most part your honesty hurt.

You told me that you weren’t particularly fond of my blowjob.

It depressed me like hell. I felt inadequate. You asked for a deep-throat, which was something I wasn’t capable of doing yet. Because I didn’t even like giving head then; I always ended up gagging, all choked and teary-eyed. Hence I tried something awful, one that caused us to not speak to each other for weeks. You do remember, right? You probably don’t want me to mention this now, but yeah, I did it so you would know it wasn’t easy giving blowjobs. When we had that threesome with Tirso, your high school friend, I intentionally pushed your head down so you could blow him. And you slapped my hand away, staring at me with disbelief. To be honest, I thought you were OK with it because you did make out with him, and the way the two of you were kissing made me believe it wasn’t the first kiss you shared.

So we didn’t talk for a few weeks. That was also the time that I found out I was pregnant. So you couldn’t blame me if I decided to induce an abortion. I had no idea if we were on the verge of breaking up or not, and I was unsure if the baby was yours or Tirso’s because you assholes both ejaculated inside me. But then, when I couldn’t stop bleeding and had to be taken to the hospital, we made up. It was the kind of kiss-and-make-up that made me the saddest woman in the world. Because I always thought I was pro-life, and being with you made me say goodbye to a lot of principles I never thought I would be able to let go just like that. So it wasn’t just the pro-life thing. You made me the kind of woman who would bend over backwards just to please a man.

And yet, I stayed for another year. And I continued with the task of pleasing you.

Our office janitor became my cock-for-practice. I was still intent on giving you the best blowjob but you never told me how you wanted it done. All you did was tell me I wasn’t doing it right. Our office janitor was different. He would tell me when to do it slowly, when to go fast, which part of my mouth I should rub his cock head with, and most importantly, he gave me all the time in the world to learn how to deep-throat. You did nothing but thrust your hips forward and push my head down. You never waited for me to get ready. Joseph always let me do my own thing. And in two week’s time, I was able to reel his cock into my mouth until my lips touched his pubes. And I didn’t gag.

Don’t you remember that one night when I sucked you in and out masterfully that you came three times in my mouth? Yes, I’d gotten all the practice for that from Joseph the janitor. And that night, after driving you crazy with my technique, I started entertaining the thought of leaving you. But I still stayed for a few weeks more. And then things got worse.

You asked me to swallow.

I never wanted to. It was the last thing on my mind. But since I got so good, you were addicted to it. You even stopped pointing your sineguelas into my vagina. All it pointed to was my mouth. And I missed your sineguelas inside my pussy, the way you fucked me real hard to kingdom come.

Swallowing your load was the worst thing ever. Primarily because it was too pungent in taste that I couldn’t stop burping after. Even after I gargled Listerine and drank glasses of water, I still burped and burped. And I burped and burped the next day. The burping stopped at lunchtime when I downed two cans of Sprite. I promised myself never to swallow cum again.

So I left you. Yes, this decision had been too sudden, especially for you. I thought I could stay longer to see if things could still work out, but finding the engagement ring in your drawer was an eye-opener for me. If I stayed and waited for you to come home from work, I knew I couldn’t say no if you proposed in person. And I couldn’t live the rest of my life always wanting to please you.

So goodbye, my love.

I still love you, Chris, but I have to start loving myself more. May you soon find someone better suited for you.

Love,

Nora
xoxo

27 January 2012

An Open Letter to Soap Opera Writers/Creators in the Philippines

How's it hanging?

I hope you are all in good health because I am not. I am just about to get completely well from an unexplained fever (scary!), which has caused me backlogs in both of my full-time and project-based jobs, but despite that, I am finding the time to write you.

Before anything else, I would like to stress that I am not writing this as a fellow writer, but as an audience member. I am barely a writer in my own right, so I cannot use that card when I give you tips on how to improve on your craft.

One of the most memorable job interviews I had was for a position in a film production company. I was asked what my favorite TV show was. My answer, without so much as a blink of an eye, was "Lost." The interviewer then asked me if the Philippines was ready for a TV show like "Lost." My answer was an all-caps NO, explaining that our local channels have just begun remaking old materials that weren't even good to begin with, so how can they possibly be ready for a TV show like "Lost"?

Looking back at that now, I realize that I was too quick to pull the trigger. Creatively, yes, YOU are ready. You can surely come up with something just as good as "Lost," you are just too afraid to do so. But there shouldn't be any reason to be afraid anymore. If you think about it, every Filipino on Facebook has an American TV show as their favorite. Everyone I know who download via torrent or stream off Megavideo understands the complexities of American TV-show storytelling. Hell, not only do they get American humor but British humor as well. And those people are in the very demographics that your advertisers need. So what the eff is holding you back? You had some progress when you did "100 Days to Heaven," but then you regressed with a piece of shit like "Budoy." Again, what the eff?

Here are some pointers that you might find useful in coming up with your next project(s):


1. Cut lengthy crying scenes. We already know what is causing that character pain, but to indulge them for a full minute of nonstop wailing? Yes, this includes burial scenes. We already know people who die get buried, and that their loved ones cry, you do not have to show EVERY SINGLE THING!

2. Enough with the separated-at-birth storylines. This is not readily identifiable by everyone. Most viewers know who their real parents are. Surely, there must be other plots you can play around with that call for climactic endings other than a biological parent-child reunion.

3. Consult professional experts. If your scene involves lawyers or anything of legal nature, consult real-life lawyers on how that scene should go. Same goes for anything medical; consult real-life doctors. So many times have you made real-life doctors cringe at carelessly executed ER and OR scenes. If you already have consultants, get better ones.

4. Flesh out your characters, even the antagonists. Most of your characters are two-dimensional. Even kontrabidas need to relate to us like real people. Stop exaggerating their actions relative to their motivations.

5. Be relevant. How about, instead of simply coming up with tearjerkers, you come up with something meaningful? How about a commentary on the Philippine government? Instead of erroneously telling us that lightning can cure autism, you show, um, as an example, how religion can corrupt a society, or whatever it is that you stand for.

I'm sure there are a lot more you can improve on, but it's already late and  I still have to write my open letter to the Philippine music industry, which might be so full of expletives it will make Regine Velasquez's head explode.

I guess what this all boils down to is for you to think of yourselves again as that young writer who never had a project yet, who was but an audience member at the time. Didn't you dream of becoming great? Didn't you plan of starting a revolution? Didn't you want to change the landscape of Philippine TV? If you did, then it's not too late yet.

Be great. Start a revolution. Change the landscape of Philippine TV.

Love,

Lead Character

25 January 2012

Losing Cakewalker's

Several months ago, Lead Character and his friends found out one of their favorite hangouts, Pod5, had closed down. Pod5 was phenomenal not exactly for the karaoke but for one of its signature drinks, Blue Imagination. It was tasty and heavenly and so strong that halfway through a pitcher, one of you might start dancing to the beats coming from Formo downstairs, and another might be going on a drunk-texting rampage, and others might even start leaving to look for regrettable one-night stands.

Until now, Lead Character is still grieving it. There was news that went around, though, that Pod5 had transferred to Club Ultima, but that is yet to be confirmed.

The other day, Lead Character found out that another favorite hangout of his and his friends had closed down.


Yes, the coziest coffee shop in town, despite their so-so beverages and sluggish Wi-Fi, is no more.

What are they taking away from Lead Character next? This???

NO!!!!!

24 January 2012

Lead Character in 2012

This is over three weeks overdue but Lead Character would like to greet everyone a Happy New Year.

Yes, perhaps this would not have been as tardy if Lead Character greeted everyone with a Chinese New Year sentimentality, but Lead Character is neither Chinese nor sentimental. Well, perhaps not completely. Lead Character looks a little Chinese when he's sleepy or drunk, and most especially when he's sleepy and drunk at the same time. And he's kind of sentimental, especially when he decides to finally regroup and think about things that he is to expect this year.

5. Follow a clearer career path. Nope, Lead Character has not documented anything here about what he really wants to do in life. But that's because he doesn't know what it is exactly. All he knows is that it involves an Oscar statuette and $1B.

4. Get inked. He now has the design, yes. But not the body part for it yet. Well, he knows which body part, it's just not ideally formed enough yet. Yes, yes, dammit, he wants a tattoo on his belly. What does his belly look like right now? You don't want to know. And if you do, you shouldn't.

3. Lose weight. Not exactly for aesthetics purposes. He doesn't need aesthetics (ha ha!). This is solely for the tattoo (ha ha!).

2. Write more. Get published again. Send an entry to the Palanca awards. Win or lose, it doesn't really matter. At least one blog entry per day to start with. Ambitious? Well, if others can do it, there's no reason why a Renaissance man (ha ha!) like Lead Character can't. Well, there is one reason: Procrastination. Embarrasingly, Lead Character's affair with Procrastination has now bordered on sexual.

1. The one thing why all those four things are expected this year. They're all for this first one. Later this year, maybe October, maybe November. You'll see, you'll see.

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