Hayyy Pasko!!

Except for the struggle I have getting up each morning because of the onset of chilly December breeze, there’s practically no other hint of Christmas air in my place now. The wreath that has graced the front door for several years now has finally gave way. Or it has secretly buried itself long ago. I can’t even find it.

But the other day, I thought it wouldn’t hurt to usher in the christmas spirit no matter how faint and ordinary it may be. I went through my CD stacks and looked for an old UST Singers CD which has, as one of the cuts, the first Pinoy christmas carol ever written after World War II. The great Philippine National Artist Felipe De Leon wrote Payapang Daigdig “the morning after he saw that bombs during the Second World War had leveled the entire city of Manila.”

The rendition of UST Singers makes the song more haunting and touching as its history. Thanks to CD samplers, I found a way for you to listen to excerpts of the song (by Filipino flutist Ray Sison and guitarist Lionel Valdellon).


http://cdbaby.com/mp3lofi/raysison-06.m3u


Payapang Daigdig

Ang gabi’y payapa
Lahat ay tahimik
Pati mga tala sa bughaw na langit
Kay hinhin ng hangin, wari’y umiibig
Sa kapayapaan ng buong daigdig.

Payapang panahon
Ay diwa ng buhay
Biyaya ng Diyos
Sa sangkatauhan
Ang gabi’y payapa, lahat ay tahimik
Pati mga tala
Sa bughaw ng langit.

Scarred but beautiful

Our emotions consume us most of the time when we're feeling the pits. We fret, we retreat, we lose grip on things, we break down. What makes it worse is a frequent attempt to romanticize the feeling of hurt and melancholy. It leads us deeper and deeper into despair and misery.

I've been through a lot. In life and in love. I have lost count on the number of times I have run into despair and gloom. It must have been the same as most people. The difference, however, is I don't nurse them. The moment I notice they're at the door, I acknowledge their presence and decide to move on and go beyond them. Sometimes, I recite this poem and give myself a light pat on the back.

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Scarred People Are Beautiful
Rev. Charles Cooke

Man speaks:
I've been hurt, Lord.
I have trusted and been betrayed at times.
I have loved and received nothing in return.
I have tried hard to care and failed often.
I have shared my secrets and, heard them whispered to others.
I have been warm and received a cold shoulder.
I have been through it, Lord.
I've fallen on my face.
I've banged my shins.
I've been bruised.
Look, Lord, I'm all covered with scars!

The Lord Speaks:
Maybe you haven't understood enough.
Maybe you haven't learned that human life is like that.
All saints are scarred.
Young love isn't the highest form of human love.
The greatest love comes from scarred people.
I know that many people stop loving so they won't be hurt again.
But those people who do start over again, who continue in spite of all, who leave themselves open to the possibility of being hurt again --These people are able to love again in a deeper way, a more understanding way, a richer way.

Man's response:
I think I know what you mean, Lord.
I've met people like that and knowing them gives me courage.
The great people are those who continue to love with their scars.
I like scarred people, Lord.
They are beautiful.

Pulsating 80's

My modest tribute to the spirited life of the 80's where everyone was as vibrant and full of character as the dance steps, variety shows, movie themes and characters, and hairstyles in that era.

And to one particular production number of one particular celebrity donning a particular costume and spraynet-loaded hairdo doing a particular glide onstage. Memories, memories.


I am what I am
I am my own special creation.
So come take a look,
Give me the hook or the ovation.
It's my world that I want to take a little pride in,
My world, and it's not a place I have to hide in.
Life's not worth a damn,
'Til you can say, "Hey world, I am what I am."
I am what I am,
I don't want praise, I don't want pity.
I bang my own drum,
Some think it's noise, I think it's pretty.
And so what, if I love each feather and each spangle,
Why not try to see things from a diff'rent angle?
Your life is a sham 'til you can shout out loud
I am what I am!
I am what I am
And what I am needs no excuses.
I deal my own deck
Sometimes the ace, sometimes the deuces.
There's one life, and there's no return and no deposit;
One life, so it's time to open up your closet.
Life's not worth a damn 'til you can say,
"Hey world, I am what I am!"

That long vacation

My nine-day vacation which started last October 29 gave me three things I have been wishing for the longest time: An even tan, eight-hour sleep, and my first viewing episode of the celebrated US-version of the Queer As Folk.



I am tanned already courtesy of a punishing regimen of rowing four times weekly on Manila Bay. You add this to my growing years spent mostly under the sun in a far-flung town and what you get is a bronzy complexion --- only, it’s confined by and large to my face, arms, and legs. Taking my shirt off would parade an obviously imbalanced skin tone where some areas are noticeably lighter than the rest especially in the neck-to-groin region. It’s as if an entire sheath of shirt-shaped clothing is perpetually draped over me.

Thanks to Hawaiian Tropic’s tanning oil and a host of few other lotions and tan amplifiers, I can now take out my shirt and stare at my color to relish it. People in my rowing team as well as in the gym have noticed it. I love the tan. It makes outdoors seem so close all the time. It tells me to look forward for bright sunny days. It causes me to be melancholic and be reminded of my humble beginnings in the small town where I grew up. It proclaims I enjoy immensely a way of life involving outdoor sports and hobbies. And thanks too for the unspoiled beaches of Calatagan in Batangas for being a perfect setting to acquire perfect tan.

Not just for getting tan, but Calatagan is also an ideal place to enjoy uniterrupted sleep lasting eight hours at least.



The entire time I was there has been a gratifying experience of tranquil and restful sleep. The bedroom was less than 50 meters from the beach and all that lulls you to sleep at night are the sounds of tireless waves heading home to the shoreline.

I’m happy to declare I’ll no longer be clueless as far as Queer As Folk is concerned. I will never appear bewildered again when friends would have discussions on the latest hot guy whisked by the Brian to the backroom or about Justin’s amusing prom scene where everyone was left stunned seeing two guys kissing in the middle of the dancefloor. I’m happy I have finally watched the entire 21 episodes comprising QAF’s First Season. All in two days. After a few episodes, I realized the best way to enjoy QAF was to prop yourself alongside big fluffy pillows with chips on the side and set the mobile phone to mute mode. I’m happy I have a 5.1 surround sound system installed on my DVD player making every viewing moment a delightful entertainment experience.

Tip: It’s best to watch QAF with a small notebook and pen conveniently stowed nearby and within easy reach. There are many one-liners in the dialogue meant to be remembered and learned by heart. Their soul remains long after the lines have been delivered and scenes are cut.

Mindfuck

I got my cousin J. to visit the house last week and stay for a few days. I kept myself so hard from trying not to probe too deeply. I didn’t want him to suspect that I have known all along the real reason he’s in the city. Yeah, he’s on a well-deserved vacation and yes, he has a convention to attend somewhere, but he’s really here to get his mind off from a tragic break-up with his girlfriend of a few years.

For me, to refer to his breakup as a tragedy was actually understating the damage done. It wasn’t just painfully heartbreaking for my cousin; it was in fact dangerously life threatening in a different kind of way. That day he visited, it has only been a few weeks after he found out his girlfriend was seeing other women for reasons all but suspect. That’s not nailing it. The girlfriend was actually humping and pumping other women. As simple as that. The whole town knew about it except for my poor cousin.

I don’t have anything against the girlfriend. The fact that she enjoys plowing slits much like her own doesn’t even bother me. It doesn’t even deprive me of a good night’s sleep. My heart pours out certainly for my cousin who’s left incredibly disillusioned and scarred for life. But the grief I feel ends the moment I think about willful and heartless deceit on the girl’s part which may have prevailed from the start. I then turn so furious I can chew her alive.

The mindfuck is what kills me. That somebody gay intentionally jumps in a heterosexual relationship to conceal nature and truth, and conform to standards to make things easier. This act of deception gives the whole gay community a bad name. That’s depressing in itself, but it’s nothing compared to the anguish of people caught in the middle of things as well as amplified homophobia from the rest of community who will start to equate gays always with cheating, always with dishonesty, always with treachery.

If we long to be accepted for who we genuinely are, we have to start from within. Acknowledge your truth and only then you can, with confidence, live. Please spare other people from the injustice of using them as unsuspecting victims in your quest of finding acceptance from people.

Wishful thinking?

There is a certain air of nervousness, something that you can’t see, but one that’s definitely in the air, when my folks and I talk during the weekly phone calls they make. They’d ask what my sister and I have been up to lately, if we have gone to visit relatives, how the peso-dollar exchange rate behaves, what items we plan to order, if we have used up all the Spam they sent in the last box, how my rowing training proceeds and if we have upcoming competitions, where we hangout usually after work, if we have any news about their friends, what the maid cooks for us, or what’s inside the refrigerator’s freezer.

The list goes on and on. Regrettably, it’s never about the person behind my name, the life I live outside work and home, what I pray for during my quiet time, what drives me to work each day, why I can never give them a grandchild, the reasons I hold behind that choice, my previous relationships, where I go when I date, what they have to say about gay relationships, how they feel about having a gay son, what they would hope to reasonably see in the future.

I pray for this: That my parents will cultivate a kind of bravery in their hearts to challenge myths and all outdated ideas they have grown accustomed to, and finally understand how most of us long for acceptance, not just tolerance.

I pray for this also: That they may stumble upon these links. And afterwhich, head out to attend the next PFLAG gathering.

Pinoy Gays
Isang panawagan

A protest

Unlike my badminton guy friend A., there’s not a single nerve inside me that rouses any curiosity whatsoever to find out how my offspring will look like. I don’t remember any time in recent years that I dwelt on it, much less spent even a fleeting moment contemplating on the faintest idea how my sperm will transform itself thousand times over to become a seven-pounder baby nine months later. While athletic potentials never seem to tire me, I am completely devoid of any interest to discover my talents and skills in the field in human production. It may have crossed my mind before, but it sure faded so quickly as it came. No traces of them are left at all.

It’s not that I detest kids and the sight of them nor do I get repulsed about doing it with a woman. It’s never about these reasons. I sure love kids. I have no problem being surrounded by them and their noise. My finest photos have kids always as main subject. On the other hand, clean female toes as well as shapely waists and long hair still get me to bulge. Worse, the idea may be totally horrifying, but I sure have strolled inside female territories in the recent past. My reasons go far beyond proving I’m proficient in copulating and bringing forth babies in this world.

It’s more of a protest, a personal statement against twisted traditional views that only when one is married or has kids that one lives a fulfilled life. Life’s happiness and fulfillment has never rested and will never rest on a two-hour ceremony before a hundred waiting witnesses while you affix your signature on a certificate that seals your marriage vows with a person. Granting that church rites are kept out of the picture and we talk of having kids outside marriage, it’s still far from convincingly proving that happiness naturally follows.

Homecoming

The last time I took a week-long vacation leave from work and headed to my hometown up north, I had two things in mind. One, be disconnected completely from computers and mobile phones and just lounge around our old daybed under a mango tree reading a book and two, be connected with my old high school classmates who have opted to remain in the province to build their family lives there. While the former mission offered a soothing relief from the harsh pressure of city life, the latter left me excruciatingly worn out from heavy thinking.

As you would have thought, those ones who stayed home in the province after high school are all married now. They obtained their undergraduate degrees from a local college and now are either self-employed or are working for the government. They are all visibly darker now, most have put on weight, a few have saggy eyebags, and a number have to endure bulky and calloused hands. They have gradeschool-aged kids by their sides while one or two were expecting new babies that time.

I try to put off inquisitive thoughts and questions from my mind when I visit them and remind myself to concentrate only on light stuff. These light stuff, regrettably, are quite limited to certain generic updates like local politics, commodity prices, who has recently gone home, what’s the latest fad among kids to name a few. When we find ourselves coming to awkward silences, I almost always end up reliving the old days and how things have changed. That gets us perked up even more. They start filling me up with the latest village chismis, most of them I normally don’t get from my relatives. I’d be delighted no end, which they love, and which I’m secretly thankful for. My excitement gives me an extra advantage. They forget to ask questions about my non-working life and nocturnal activities; something I would have to work on explaining when queried.

Not because I have something to hide nor I live a fugitive’s life. It’s not that. It’s more about carefully trying to sift through my stories and take away those details that they won’t be able to relate to or those which may unwittingly cause them to feel inferior because they will mostly hear about night-long dancing in a fancy bar or late-night coffees in a hotel lobby or weekend trips to a resort. The last thing I wanted to happen is setting a stage for my side of things to glow and, in the end, snatch for myself what could have been one of few opportunities for my less-privileged classmates to feel important.

Eventually, I disclose nothing significant about myself and the things I do in the city. They just know I’m working and still single. And happy. It’s better that way, I think. They see I’m genuinely interested about them and their stories. I make sure they have my full attention for whatever they reveal about the budding family lives they have. This is about them. Besides, it’s no use harping about projects I'm working on back at work or the company I work for. Those are hardly meaningful to them.

Reading the lines

Somebody sent me this text message. I would need help understanding the unspoken words behind what was said.

Can't help it,
I get Freudian on you.
Everything seems an innuendo.

Crotch action

And just like that, the guy shoved his hand on my crotch as I made my way out of the locker area. He held his fingers together and cupped my bulge. I was shocked. I couldn't believe it. I looked at him and he quickly moved his gaze away from me. I then turned towards the exit, and there, the cleaning attendant was moving towards me. I didn't know if he witnessed what happened, but I'm sure if his eyes were quick, that wouldn't escape him since I was standing directly across the exit. I was breathing heavily as I walked out.

I didn't exactly feel violent nor entertained the slightest possibility of creating a scene right there. All that was on my mind was a question: Was that how desperate one can get?

Choices, choices

My friend Omar would send me, on an average, around four forwarded text messages daily, all jokes. Normally, I would just press the delete button and wouldn't read any. I discovered recently that they were probably pre-screened already since they almost always end up throwing me in stitches.

Here's one:

Daddy: Anak, bili mo ako ng softdrinks
Anak: Coke o Pepsi po?
Daddy: Coke
Anak: Diet o Regular?
Daddy: Regular
Anak: Bote po o in cans?
Daddy: Bote
Anak: 8 oz o Litro?
Daddy: Punyetaaa!! Tubig na nga lang!
Anak: Mineral o Distilled?
Daddy: Mineral
Anak: Malamig o hindi?
Daddy: ‘Tangina. Hampasin kita ng walis e!
Anak: Tambo o ting-ting?
Daddy: Hayooopp ka!!!!
Anak: Baka o baboy??

Still on cruising

I’m squirming in my seat now as I write this. I don’t like to come out preachy or righteous or some pretentious guy so full of himself he forgets about living in this world. But I wanted to spend more time talking about my ideas on tasteful cruising lest I be accused as nothing but a grumpy old cantakerous mammal who’s just viciously bitter and resentful with the world.

Admittedly, I am old and sometimes grumpy, but by no means crabby. I just happened to feel so strongly about certain things, one of them cruising.

A few no-nos easily come to mind when I support the idea of tasteful cruising. They are not necessarily the only ones in my list, but they are definitely the ones that carry much significance. All that these self-imposed rules ever speak about is quiet modesty, a kind of decorum that invites people to look beyond one’s imperfection`s --- one where the person joining you on bed for sleep at night or that one whom you call sweetheart are immaterial. All of these too were arrived at from my basic desire to maintain good and civil relationships with people.

Here's what I think:

First and foremost, when a person you’re trying to cruise says no or shows the slightest sign that your moves are not welcome, by all means heed the call. Take the no at face value. It doesn’t say anything about your market value and they don’t really intend to hurt you or worsen your day. They are just probably too tired and are in no mood for it, or are taken, or simply not quite smitten. There’s no use of insisting to be macho and judge the lack of interest as another Extra Challenge test you have to hurdle. If you want to invite respect, let yourself be the first one to offer it.

Secondly, please leave those taken at peace. Relationships have to be respected. Just as you would definitely not want lustful eyes to shamelessly ogle your partner, then don’t try to be a prick and carelessly maneuver yourself to get your neighbor’s other half to bed with you. You will appreciate other people’s respect to you and your partner and your relationship when you see them behave before you. Oh, this one is biblical. It’s in the Ten Commandments, if you must know. I just forgot which number.

Thirdly, not inside the church please. Try to remind yourself where you are periodically. If it’s inside any place of worship, then certainly, that place is sacred. Sacred places help you get spiritual nourishment; they are venues to renew ties with your God or Allah or Buddha. The name of the game is decency. If that gives you a hard time, castration may be wiser alternative.

This may sound erotic for some, but I say, in no way should anyone cruise a relative. It is repugnant and, I would have to say, the ultimate of unpardonable crudeness.

I could go on and on, but I think the list doesn’t have to amount to a thousand and one to reinforce the need for propriety for a thing which otherwise would have been deemed by most as all but proper. All it takes is a quick review of learnings made in our GMRC class way back or, even farther down the road, the things we learned in kindergarten about being kind and nice to our neighbors.

Poem

Hawiin mo ng sagwan mong matigas
Ang dagat ng pagnanasa.
Sumabay sa indayog ng bangka
Palubog, pataas, pabulusok
Hanggang marating mo
Ang rurok ng ligaya.

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My Mindanao-based friend Mitch, whom I haven’t seen in ages, wrote a poem for me after getting a clearer idea on dragonboat rowing following that documentary feature on local TV last week. She’s been sending me text messages a lot in the last few days inquiring about rowing, my oar, training regimen as well as lovelife and vacation stories. I would patiently answer all her rowing-related queries and would be exceptionally silent on all that dwells about lovelife. When she finally calls asking why I would suddenly turn silent, I’d amusingly yell at her and remind her about the only one thing we share in common over the years, a humdrum lovelife.

Then we’d poke fun at ourselves and the strong possibility of us evolving to become another addition to the growing number of lone rangers in this world. We’d end our usual conversation with a zestful toast to singlehood!

A call for tasteful cruising

I have lived long enough to know the ins and outs of cruising. Not the kind that traverses countries and oceans, although it brings you the same heavy breathing and tensed muscles. I’m talking about gay cruising to be exact. Sometimes I can’t help by laugh quietly when I realize I have probably breathed cruising air for so long I can smell it from miles away. I can very well sense it in my surroundings even if I close my eyes in sleep or plug my ears to rest.

That’s how I have grown to be so unknowingly skillful in this field. By that, I don’t mean I top the cruising field. I’m quite more of the reverse. I’m dreadfully shy. You would have to fill me up full tank with vodka or tequila or anything extremely intoxicating to make me lose myself and forget about my inhibitions. That’s probably the only time I can manage to smile seductively or even walk up to somebody for a small talk. I needed to be prodded in a special kind of way just to initiate what otherwise would have been something unimaginable.

When I say cruising pervades my space it can drown me in no time, all I wanted to declare is something that’s so plain and true. One doesn’t need to pray for mammoth eyes or ears that grow like wild giant mushrooms to be familiar with the finer points of cruising. What’s all needed is just a heightened sense of intuition, one that leads to being perceptive and insightful of people’s feelings, behaviors, or the slightest move of a body part. For instance, there is a way to read a person’s seemingly innocent glance or second stares and find out they really meant something else. There’s also a way to know that a harmless brush of elbows in a music store or a moviehouse or even inside a church during an ongoing mass really was meant to communicate one’s desire to pursue a tryst.

For gayguys, this is not something foreign. We have all grown accustomed to the step-count-look back habit or that celebrated three-second eye contact. We have likewise polished our face muscles so well we can whip out a craving look anytime or, worse, that one that depicts a yearning to devour certain body parts no end.

I don’t have anything against cruising and people who cruise. I won’t even lift a finger and talk people out of their decision to walk around the entire city to pursue a partner even for a momentary bliss. I will not stand in the way of people who might opt to spend the rest of their lives doing this. There’s only a small request I’d like to make: That when you do it, can it please be done in a way it doesn’t lead other people – gay or straight – to think lowly of the gaykind. It doesn’t help that, while other people silently work hard to break long-standing myths about gay people, some recklessly flush down hardly-fought constructive imagery of gays down the drain with their unflattering conduct.

I’m no manners police or anything. I just beg, please be at least tasteful.

Row, row

It was the second dragonboat race for local club teams last Sunday. My friend Jed took this shot.



I spent around nine to ten hours at Manila Bay for the 2nd Quarter Regatta, just about the same time it'll take for one to travel from Laoag in Ilocos Norte to Manila. Out of around 17 club teams in the men's division, we belonged to the six which reached the finals. We didn't get the top prize. No team ever manages to beat the navy, air force, police teams. For a club team, it's enough that you race with them.

The seventies

There is a statement my mom would always use to pacify me when, as a kid, I would throw tantrums whenever I failed to get what I wanted. Very calmly, she would say, “Make do with what you have.” And she would swiftly follow that with a reminder that we’re not well-off and we should be on guard against coveting things our playmates owned.

I think it started with trivial things like shoes and schoolbags. I’d sometimes spot a differently colored shoes or some bag that has more sidepockets and that starts me off on a relentless move to be difficult and upset everyone with my whining. I would refuse to do my assigned chores or decide not to talk to anyone at home. When that fails to get the attention I wanted, I would then deliberately pick a fight with my sister with the most petty things like she having more bread spread or me spending less time in the bath.

Mother’s words definitely leave a permanent mark in you. I moved to high school always getting reminded with those six words whenever I find myself desiring something which I knew wouldn’t kill me anyway if I didn’t get it. I learned to manage with just one bag in my entire high school and didn’t mind if everyone had new shirts on the first day of class after the holidays and I’d be the only one wearing same old shirt. A few years later, I survived all of college with just two pairs of low waist Levis and wearing shorts most of the time.

Looking back, I still don’t fully understand how just one statement managed to tame me throughout those crucial years. On one end, I would have to pay tribute to my parent’s unending patience. On the other hand, I’d say the seventies I grew up in were the finest period to parent kids. Life was so much simpler then. Traditions and manners carried more meaning. Authorities were more respectable and respected.

Lest you think I'm sporting white hair now, I am just as old as that year martial law was declared in the Philippines. That makes me ancient in some ways. But at the same time, it has given me so much beautiful stories and memories I could go on and on talking about them.

Smelly men

I thought I was one of the very few who have perfected a certain set of body twists and bends to do this particular kind of clean-up. Apparently, there's a new way to do it without having to contort and strain your back.

I've said this before and I'll say it again. Men should learn the virtue of grooming not just for their hair or whatever's left of it at the top but, more importantly, the ones down there too. There's nothing more disturbingly distasteful than blowing somebody hoping you'll lead them to the heavens and instead, end up getting your head blown off because of a stinky smell. Nobody should be subjected to that virtual death on earth. It's just inhuman, so heartless, so despicable!

But the reality of stinky men, while without a doubt a death sentence, is still widespread. Which makes me question a lot things. Were these guys ever present when hygiene was discussed in the homeroom class or do they they live in some place desert where water turns up only once a year? I mean, can't they smell it? Or granting that they don't, can't they at least connect the dots? That even when you shake and rattle and roll little junior after peeing, there's always something that's left which, when made to contact with a thick bushy pube area in a hot humid weather like Manila, detonates a putrid scent that kills? It doesn't take so much to comprehend that.

I hope sooner, rather than later, men will finally grow up and learn. There are three basics, so kindergarten, that can be done to completely reverse conditions so we are left with men who not only smell good but whom we enjoy doing blowing bubbles too.

1. You got to trim those hair. If you worry about hairs growing long way past the nostrils, by all means, worry also about pubic hairs growing way past your navel. At best, the length of the hair left should be less than half an inch. The shorter, the better.

2. Start wearing boxer shorts. Briefs, regardless of brand, type, textile, and cut, cling on too tightly to the skin it absorbs sweat and other juices that ooze. In a humid weather like Manila's where we sweat profusely, that means more sweat. More sweat + Bushy hair jungle + Tight undergarment = Only one thing, nasty stench.

3. Bath, bath, bath.

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Thanks Mavic for showing the way.

A prayer

To a certain extent, I am vain too. I’m terribly guilty and there’s no denying. I spend a considerable amount every month on foot massages, pedicures, lotions, moisturizers, facial creams, facial scrubs, body scrubs, and a whole lot of other pampering menu. Not only that, I make sure there are at least three different shampoos available at any one time when I take a bath aside from a number of hair conditioners on the side waiting to be noticed whose ultimate use largely depends on whatever scent they carry or mood I feel like having stepping out of the bathroom. I thought I have become too narcissistic with all these that I sometimes have to beat myself to calm down.

However, sitting over lunch with a friend’s friend a few days ago made my idea of vanity fall six feet under. I was quietly enjoying my meatless taco salad lunch when this guy matter-of-factly asked if we had plans of having our body fat checked at the gym. He said he was going to have his appointment later in the day and asked if anybody wanted to come along. I was stunned. I didn’t expect to hear something like that. I mean, this was a guy I thought carried the least worry on body fats and all. Yes, you’ll have a hard time spotting him in a dark room, but it’s a breeze to single him out from a crowd if lovehandles become the basis. He absolutely doesn’t have any. You look at him and think he was born with just muscles beneath his skin.

I am one who’s not easily offended, but hearing him talk about body fat check as if it’s the only measure of a man really put me off. I got upset, not because he was repeatedly boasting about his single-digit body fat, but more because I got so frustrated. Big time.

My thought was simple. I conceded, that's one less soul over there who couldn’t contribute to breaking myths that shapes and curves make a man. What made it even more infuriating for me was hearing it from a gayguy. In between heavy breaths, I prayed for lenience. My brothers hopefully appreciate sooner that men are so much more than body fat and waistlines.

Age and waist

September 9 vanished so quickly as it came. I didn’t even feel it enough. It turned up like a wink of an eye, something that was so uneventful you wouln’t even notice it was there. Like in my previous birthdays, I still spent the day by myself with nothing else in mind but a well-deserved rest and quiet time.

I was roaming around the mall as early as ten in the morning that day. You would mistake the mall to be some place haunted. Nobody was there. It was eerie yet strangely soothing. It was what I needed. It is what I always long for every year when the ninth day of the ninth month pays a visit.

Another year was added and it seems the more that it takes place, the more that I savor retreating to the sidelines and enjoy quietness. I no longer get paranoid receiving prying stares from some people who see me dine alone in a restaurant when everybody else’s tables are filled with family members and friends. I have long mastered the art of enjoying solitude in multitude so to speak. Nothing, virtually nothing of it appears dreadful to me or at the very least awkward.

Maybe it’s the age. Maybe the long years have finally paid off. Whatever it is, I love how things are now with me. Love may be elusive, I may be older than some, and worse, I may look older my age, but my god, my waistline falls way below my age. That's a tall order the moment you go past 30. Except of course for some selected few, but those are the gifted lot either with extremely active genes or with enormously huge bank accounts that they can easily head to the nearest lipo clinic. Which, on both counts, I unfortunately don't have. But which I completely don't mind.

Alone yet surrounded

Out of the blue, I felt water slowly wedge in my eyes and blurred my vision. I was close to letting my guards down and dramatically surrender to my feelings, but I thought I’ve been caught in a similar dilemma before and I’ve always managed to get through each time. I should be OK. But last Sunday afternoon however was different. This time, it was unusually difficult to keep my bearing and repulse the urge to bawl as I sat in the middle of a crowd watching kids perform in a musical number. I kept urging myself to remain calm and poised. It just wasn’t the place to cry.

The urge to cry your eyes out was the last thing anybody in that audience thought anyone should feel that time. The kids were in their elements as they swayed and glided on the stage. You can see them enjoying themselves, not mindful of the crowd that has gathered to watch them. They felt comfortable performing. Stage seemed to be a second home for them. I was genuinely enjoying myself watching them.

I couldn’t place where the feeling of being utterly sad was coming from. I ran thoughts in my head asking if there have been gloomy days earlier, and I couldn’t exactly agree if there ever was one. I just kept looking at the strobe lights above the stage to push back tears so they won’t fall over. I would bite my lower lip to put me in pain. I would force a smile and move my head to the beat in my attempt to fend off sad thoughts.

I still cried.