A woman, who looked more than a man to me, shrieked as if she's just had an orgasm after sleeping with Brad (or perhaps Angelina because she looked more than a man to me, told you).

I gave it to her --"her" because I want to be correct here--that not so often a commoner gets a chance to shake the hand of a smiling President who is embattled by the controversies and the deafening calls for her to resign--and still can afford to smile.

The scream of the woman, as she bragged about how she managed to point her camera-ed phone and shoot the president, was a stealer that even the smiling president, clad in sky-blue suit, had she not been too engrossed at giving out that signature smile and countless thank-yous, could have been irritated by it.

Honest, I saw the woman's esophagus. And irritated was one senior journalist who had to, amid the chaos, ask the woman "idol mo siya (you idolize her)?"

The woman,surprised by the question, for a split second, stopped. Recomposed the self and grinning but still exposing the tired esophagus, proudly said "syempre!"

She was very happy, sure, that the President shook her hand. But the President also shook several dozens of strangers' hands Wednesday afternoon and the President, I bet, would never ever remember one face in the crowd.

Honest, I am wondering whether the President, described by the members of the League of the Municipalities of the Philippines-Mindanao cluster as someone with "integrity and honest," could even remember the feel of a person's hand.

But that was not my problem Wednesday. I know something was wrong when I saw some journalists--those who do not mind dying just to be where the news is happening--at the lobby of the hotel when they were already supposed to be at the ballroom, waiting for the President to, well, give out the news.

My problem was whether or not the more or less 15 journalists who were stopped by the guards at the lobby (or those who were forced to leave the ballroom prior to the arrival of the President) of the hotel will be allowed to go up even without the the security pass.

But you know, I for one, already have a security pass numbered CN 070. I got hold of the pass, a Malacanang Media Pass signed by the head of the Philippine Information Agency (PIA) and accredited and cleared by Media Accreditation and Relations Office (MARO) of the Office of the Press Secretary, during the media briefing the day before the President arrived.

The security was really tight. And the the secretariat was not attending to the queries of the journalists who were stalled and were really, really getting anxious because the situation only meant one thing--we will be missing the statement of the President.

But we realized that we did not have to worry about whether we will be able to hear her announcements. One senior reporter said: "She needs us more that we need her."

With that, we proceeded to the bar and allowed coffee and a platter of French fries to simmer us down. Few minutes after, we went outside the hotel to only overhear a woman, apparently a servant of the MARO, telling a group of journalists that "I can allow you to get inside the hotel but not go up the ballroom."

Hell, what was she thinking? That she owns the hotel? That people cannot go inside the hotel without her facilitating it? That people cannot be in that hotel because the President was there getting the assurance of Mindanao mayors that she has their support, no matter what, in exchange for a fat annual internal revenue allotment? What?

That plus the frustration later pushed the journalists to tear the Malacanang issued Media pass.


Forgive my address of the President as the President when I could have used her name instead to avoid annoying repetitions. I have to be consistent with her recent assertion that "...ako pa rin ang pangulo."


Omar's messages raced up with Mandy's; both of them begging me to even just once, be quick. You know, down here, I am quite notorious for my late arrivals to meetings and interviews. I am supposed to report to work at 9am but that's my wake-up time actually--meaning, my work time starts an hour before lunch time.

Texted Omar that I am already preparing to leave the office. It was just past 6pm, three hours before my self-imposed off. But truth was, I wasn't. Truth was, I was still stuck in my office. Truth was, I was not moving at all--just staring at the screen of my computer. Truth was, I was felled by this unknown feeling of shit. You know, it was really strange--I was just watching videos of my dear, dear Jason Mraz and suddenly I felt this familiar and nasty pang of gloom thickening in my chest.

So like today when I clicked the play button of this video.


I just made a huge, huge decision over my smoking. I have been smoking for the last eight years and recently, something has been consistently nagging me to quit. Yes, I'm quitting as I felt the urge to impose upon myself to drastically turn the back from the white-filtered sticks that have been giving the saliva the flavor of cancer.

I am confident that I can forget about Marlboro Lights' intimate moments of both happiness and frustrations with me easily, the way I threw into the waste bin my orgasmic encounters--happy and frustrating, too--with Philip Morris.

Now, I declare, I am done with Marlboro Lights. I am tired of Marlboro Lights. I am breaking up with Marlboro Lights. I need a comfortable space, away from Marlboro Lights. Yes, Marlboro Lights is THE spent. I no longer love Marlboro Lights, you know...

But listen to this, I'm beginning to like Marlboro Light's older but stronger brother. Actually, I starting to really like Marlboro. He is much stronger and everytime we kiss? Wow! Marlboro, with his red head, surprisingly turns me on as he is a sight to behold. He challenges my tongue--actually entices my piece of meat to strip off as he thrusts dip into the mouth while at the other end he burns down slowly, spewing a glorious white film of smoke.

Sigh...I am so into him that I don't mind dying in his arms.


It's blinding outside but the pale paint of the walls illuminated darkness. For how can I stand the radio that just played the saddest song I ever have heard? It's not the radio, sure. It's the song. Even after turning it off, it remained inside my head. It's there, gracefully ripping down the sanity left me by the fever and colds.

I guess it's what they call the mean reds.


The House has now a new boss. A big boss. Bigger than the old one. The new boss has a checkered political history. He was a former human rights lawyer. Critics would rather see the word former in bold letters. And all caps. Why, because they say he is a lapdog now. The new boss made his way after, her critics say, the mother opened the door for him and forced the former boss outside.

Then, slammed it on his face.

You see, the closeness of the former boss to her was unquestionable. He was there for her as the new boss was always beside her. You see, he was there when she was being forced to vacate her own house. She did not budge. Thanks to him--the new boss--and to him who will now I call The Spent. Both the new boss and The Spent were instrumental in making her, along with the minions of her guards. This made her really invincible. They made him invincible. All of them who were called as her rabid supporters.

You see, it's a two-way-street for the mother and her rabid supporters, critics say. Or more than a two-way-street, in fact as their rabidness funelled more power to her, enough for her eclipse their rabidity.

Whatever happens next will definitely dictate, more or less if not curbed, the fate of the children.

Here lies. Whatever lies mean.


I once read in a lifestyle article in the Philippine Daily Inquirer that Frenchmen do not mind a strip. That I was persuaded to believe the story was really easy as the article came up a couple of photos showing young Frenchmen showing off their rasé cul during a wedding party. I often imagine them as that. Bold. Daring. Perhaps, these are the reasons why I would always want to visit France, not to mention the French kiss.

But France, for all its glorious and kaleidoscopic history, has a lot to brag about. A magazine featuring tourism of the country made me sink in total amazement as I browsed the section that carried France Hotels. Nevermind the price that ranges from 30 euros (P1,700.00+) to as much as 400 euros (P23,000.00+) because, based on what I were seeing, one would surely not mind the price at all.

The package being offered by Paris Hotels, on the other hand, is something that cannot be ignored. Who would ever say no to the charm of Ritz Hotel Paris? For lovers in Paris, other attractions, of course, include the Musée du Louvre, the Notre Dame, and the Eiffel Tower.

In Germany, the Berlin Hotels are just as interesting. Five-star Germany Hotels, raging from 120 euros to 326 euros, are must-go places like Berlin’s Romantic Road and Neuschwanstein Castle. The impressive Adlon Hotel is not only known for its excellence but also best known for its historical significance as it was through the support of Kaiser Wilhelm II that what is now known as the world’s most beautiful and luxurious hotel in the world was built.


Helping out a friend here. I can be his PRist, I told him. He said he will use his body as payment. I didn't tell him I'm not accepting "lumpsum" pay. I always go for tingi.


Coral Productions is in need of Visayan actors for an indie film entitled “The ‘Thank You’ Girls’ scheduled to be shot in Davao City on March 2008. Audition will be on FEB. 22, 2008 in DAVAO CITY (specific venue to be announced later) so if you know people who will be interested in the area, kindly tell them.

“The ‘Thank You’ Girls” is a roadtrip comedy about five dysfunctional gay beauty pageant veterans who always lose in gay beauty pageants. They then decide to travel from Davao to Cagayan de Oro City thinking they have better chances of winning in the provinces.


male, 40-45 yo
has an expressionless face
the manager and financer of the group and biological father of Chris

male, 18-22 yo
straight acting gay
goodlooking, vain, son of Mommy Paola

male, 24-25 yo
has an obnoxious, contagious laugh
body borders to being almost chubby
not goodlooking but has high self-confidence

transvestite, 25-28 yo (he is 33 yo in the film but should look younger than his age)
with boobs

male, 24-27
very normal, ordinary looking
struggling musician

male, 45-50 yo
Mommy Paola’s “demented” lover

Also, if you are an unsigned alternative rock band who has recorded music, we are in need of songs for the film’s soundtrack.