Rambling to 2007

Fridays uncommonly serve me as downers.

I’m guessing it’s that feeling of sadness and longing to be home with family and friends.

Hello control dramas, my trusted friend!

Still, in my state of destitution, in the face of all my fashion transgressions, as my spa/sauna-deprived circumstances, I am thankful.

My nomadic, adorable Filipino friends in Port Moresby keep me at bay from insanity-ville. My Caucasian comrades keep me intoxicated every so often and have them to thank for things like yacht in social vocabulary.

I might exploit this into a long, mushy, rambling story. I better do something else.

No, I don’t masturbate anymore. At least I lie that I don’t.

Ever Belina

It was our first heated argument. At the Burger King, of all places. Somewhere at Seoul’s gay district—we had our very first conversation without any mention of Miss Dominican Republic’s national costume for last years’ Miss Universe.

Some remark I made on his lover from few lovers ago ricocheted as retaliatory I-hate-this-and-that-about-you. Like a tong-its game (gin & rummy) in your neighborhood wake abundant with M.Y. San crackers and commoners’ coffee, things went hardcore and hate cards were laid.

Consciously, we’ve been avoiding any altercations on matters that matter. Like that homo sitcom, we were Will and Grace, Karen and Jack: spatting over the artistic merits of Bata Bata Paano ka Ginawa versus Titanic, what is the capital of Gabon, our waist lines and other people’s non-gym-going waist lines, commuting on jeepneys and my I-don’t-eat-at-food courts policy. It’s comfortable stuff only.

It’s as like as chalk and cheese this time: embarrassed stares, wrinkled noses. We said things to each other that we meant to say ages ago. Things we never thought the need to discuss them may arise…like Ever Bilena on cosmetics.

I’m not going to write about it though. I tell about other people too much.

Here’s what I can share though:

One is ever grateful to the heavens for a best friend with
1. two co-dependent nervous systems—for his penis and for himself,
2. with a taste for the mongoloid-ish oriental boys which cuts down any competition between us, and
3. with a twisted understanding of love but with the generosity to parade his broken heart and sore, sometimes violated ass once or twice once and again to set example to the likes of me who understands the game of love less.

Lubid at Lupa

Hihiramin ba ang lumbay ng umaga kung sa krimen ng kahapon ay wala ka
Kahapong sinlapit ng nakalimot na gabi sa isang bulag na pagkakasala
Ang hakbang ba’y pabalik sa kalawakang bubog na may dantay ng lason
Lasong taksil sa pawis at luha

Aalayan ba ng rosal ang libingan ng mga buhay na bihag
Bihag at alipin na di na ma-amoy ang hiwaga ng pulang rehas
Mananatili bang itim ang belong burada ng ala-ala
Itim pa ba ang tema ng iyong dalangin

Sira na ang biyulin at pigtas na ang lubid ng duyan
Ngunit tila ang duyan parin ang kanlungan ng iyong tulirong damdamin
Anong kasabay ng iyong paos na himig
Himig ng iyong hikbing hanap ang mga punit na guhit ng byulin

Halika’t baybayin nating ang bangungot: tapang na tapakan ang mga bubog
Tumayo ka’t Ako at ako ay may paroroonan
Pulutin mo ang lubid na hinahagkan na nang giniginaw na lupa
Sa sapang dilaw doon lahat tayo’y magkita-kita

Di ba’t sa kahariang dagat ang hantungan ng bawat butil ng tubig
Libingnang may sumpa’t pangako nang muling pagkabuhay
Na ang tabang na tubig ay lilipas sa alat ng karagatan
Tubig at tubig, tubig din ang kalalagyan

Arok nawa ang pangitaing may bukadkad ng rosal at tiklop ng belo
Ang pagsunog sa lubid at paglimot sa biyulin
Anong lason man ang pumatay sa iyong maikling kasaysayan
Hiramin mo’t angkinin ang lumbay ng umaga

Papa

It's been a while, what...three years?

I'm not sure if i'd make it to heaven... but if i'm refused entry, i guess we can meet up in a bar somewhere next to the gate and catch up on old times over a few bottles of San Mig.

I miss you dad. Happy fathers' day.

Bryan Anthony

5 PM

5:00 p.m.’s are everyday to anyone as it is to me, but not today…

what and why port moresby’s cold june wind brought breeze of nostalgia, i do not know…

my late father seldom made it home at 5:00 p.m.

his showing-up on time is always a special occasion

for me it’s an answered prayer. it is.

--

papa IS the best cook in the world. although help was always around to prepare dinner, consistently, he does all the cooking every time he’s home by 5:00… making such days so special.

i never grew out of these 5:00 o’clock’s:

us siblings shove ourselves on the passenger seats, thrilled for that special trip to the market.

trips that make my day perfect no matter how fucked-up the rest of it was.

i would trade a day of waking life for another 5:00 o’clock with papa…one is to one...

---

papa always reminded us of two things every time we take these trips:

(1) a good cook buys the ingredients himself &

(2) only lazy people can’t cook.


this is not my fathers’ day blog.

Merry Christmas of 2004

“Merry Christmas my dearest Bryan, although I did not expect you to be back in my life, much less hope you’d be with me again…and talking, laughing and spending time with you, at that moment was way out of mind. But…that night when you texted [sic] me, … that night when I called you twice and finally talked to you…that moment for me was no less than perfect. It’s one of the moments in my life that I’ll never forget. The timing was perfect. The FEELING was perfect. I couldn’t ask for anything more. For what it’s worth, I smiled the whole night after that, and I don’t know why. I just closed my eyes and it felt good. So needless to say, I gave it another chance and one thing led to another, I knew it…I knew it that I love you.

You take care of me, treat me extra special, and you make me laugh… A LOT.

Going thru all this trouble for you is nothing simply because I love you. I know you know what I mean. I love you so much.

Of course its difficult, even hard at times not being able to spend time with you. Everyday without you is such a ++++. So all I can do sometimes is fantasize about you. Parang yung kanta ng The Platters ba yun? Whenever I want you, all I have to do is …dream… dream, dream, dream.

Kasi I know when we finally are together again, pag yakap na kita ulit… everything will be perfect again. Nothing else will matter for a while.

Yung moments na nag la-last forever ika nga, kasi nagmamahalan tayo eh.

We have everything anyone can hope for; someone to love and that someone loving them back.

I await for that day my love!

Take great care of yourself for me, please.

I love you so much.

Have a very happy Christmas.

Can’t wait for you to come home soon.

Always,
++++”

--GREAT MY BREAST LID (an anagram)

This letter is reprinted with the knowledge and permission of the author

Mama Day

Mama,

There'll never be a woman like you in my life.

I love you ma.

Bryan Stars



"A mother is a mother still, The holiest thing alive."

Samuel Taylor Coleridge

Fucking River

Rivers shocked the Logies audience when she said "I don't know why the fuck I'm here.”
---

How can a 72-year old woman make you laugh? She has to be Joan Rivers, period.

Half-sober Rivers presented an award at the Logies (the Australian equivalent of the Emmy Awards) and was unsurprisingly consistently herself.

She said “fuck” twice live on national TV, made fun of the Tom-Katie-Suri craze and chastised the Aussie people to “grow up”.

Joan Rivers was awarded with a complementary trophy, a pink one! [silver trophies are given to category winners while the the gold Logie is awarded to the most Popular TV personality of the year] After the co-presenter handed her the special Logie, there was a short applause from the dining crowd. And while delivering her “I’m-so-touched” line, she threw the pink monstrosity across her shoulder, the thing went rolling on the stage while Joan nonchalantly proceeded with her presenting duties.

Everyone went ape laughing.

Instead of reading out the nominees she stooped down to pick-up the trophy, waved it to everyone and announced that they can post a bid for it at E-bay the next day.

She then complained “it’s the most disgusting trophy I ever received”.

The whole thing was so hilarious I almost forgot about how blandly (a few of them—horrendously) dressed most of the Aussie TV stars were.

But I’ll be diplomatic and will keep the rest of my Logies 2006 red-carpet thoughts to myself. Papua New Guinea is still an Australian lair. This aint neutral ground!

What is life without comedy and ill-dressed stars?

Acts

My Bible-armed colleague ambushed me one I-hope-no-one-speaks-to-me Monday morning rubbing the pages of the Acts of the Apostles to my Nivea Pore Cleanser-nursed face.

The bigot ran out of Amens when I told her I’m as Christian as Hans Christian Anderson but I don’t subscribe to the story of the physical Resurrection of Christ.

This is but one of the personalities I deal with in my day in and out here in the betel nut capital of the world—Port Moresby!

Life’s a bitch!

Kid

My father’s bed
April 19, 2003
Around 10.30 in the morning


Me: Pa, have you said your prayers yet?
Dad: (shakes his head)

Me: Hail Mary full of grace the Lord is with you, blessed are you among women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb Jesus.
Dad: Holy Mary mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of my death amen.

Me: Hail Mary full of grace the Lord is with you, blessed are you among women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb Jesus.
Dad: Holy Mary mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of my death amen.

Me: Hail Mary full of grace the Lord is with you, blessed are you among women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb Jesus.
Dad: Holy Mary mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of my death amen



---
He passed away that afternoon.

That was our last conversation.

We still talk every now and then.

---

My father is fondly nicknamed “Kid".

Party Pooper

I never said Lamana parties are cheap shindigs. The first time I went there I was so bored I died way before I could give the place a fair appraisal.

I can’t afford Spain to be an Ibiza party-file, and I’m a US visa short to hang around Miami either. Exposure wise, I am no where close to being a party diva, and I refuse to be regarded as one either even if people suffer agitation on my recent non-appearance at Port Moresby’s apparent disco Mecca.

Lamana or the people who enjoy themselves there are NOT cheap. If in my many nights of insobriety I happen to say such a horrible but not totally impossible thing, then accept this post as my official recantation.

Tetris

My bed is starting to get crowded. Bert bought me a croc stuffed toy to accompany my caveman teddy.

I have a small bed. Good enough for just one person and good enough for me—in Port Moresby anyway.

I wonder how Ces dozes a non-alcoholic night away when she’s got an entire outback of space in her king-sized bed. I’ll find it daunting if I were her. Hell, every toss and turn is a reminder that there’s no one to nudge and grumble “move over fart!” at.

---

A few weeks ago, I had dinner with Ces.

Struggling with her chopsticks, she asked me: “WHEN will I be truly happy?” I wanted to tell her to visit the furniture shop. But I didn’t wish to go all too cynical before my tempura. I faked a sigh instead.

---

An ex told me that happiness is a state of mind. I didn't understand what he meant. I was 16 going on 17 then (21, if you really want to know the truth).

I gather that happiness doesn’t come in one she-bang. Not in one lump-sum. It comes in pieces. You have to see to it that each piece will make life bearable, a bit like a game of tetris. Bricks of assorted shapes trickle one after another for you to sort out. Sometimes you get the easily maneuverable pieces and sometimes you get the tricky odd-shaped ones like the crosses, T's or the L's. You just have to be smart about it to score points.

---

After the dinner my phone rang and it’s midnight-caller/stalker on the other line, offering his bed for the night.

I sighed (this time it’s genuine), wished him a good night (not) and for the nth time refused his offer.

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That night I slept in my small bed with caveman, croc and a 100 unread pages of Sharon Creech.