on summer and skin

Summer’s here! says the giant billboard near the office, as if the collective BO that greets me every time I ride the MRT at high noon isn’t enough to remind me of my most hated season of the year.

Unless I can be that stud chasing the bikini-clad girl in that billboard, or a student facing a two-month respite from school, I don’t see any reason why I should sing paeans to summer.

Really, what’s there to enjoy in 60 or more days of infernal weather?

Beaches, you say. I say fuck beaches. I hate beaches during summer like I hate phone calls during sex. The crowd of mostly preppies is one thing; the astronomical prices of beer and accommodation is another.

Beach bunnies flaunting long legs and cleavages are nice, and female Caucasians baring huge tits are fun to watch. But never in hell can these justify a San Mig Light priced at Php120 a bottle. I don’t tolerate this even in those cheap-ass Cubao whorehouses where, if you’re not careful, you’ll end up broke, not even halfway drunk, and nursing the mother of all boners at the end of the night. I should know.

Pundits who claim to know everything can say I’m sourgraping. Perhaps they’re right. I haven’t been anywhere near an ocean in years. The last one was in 2002, in Claveria, Cagayan, while on coverage for the Manila Times. I remember that fondly because it was the first time I saw the famed sunrise by the ocean. It was breathtakingly beautiful, almost postcard-perfect. It reduced me to a fanboy.

Now the heat is on, full blast, and as I sit here smoking, sweating, shaking nostalgia out of my head, I am suddenly gripped by that wonderful madman formula that says an increase in temperature is directly proportional to the scope of skin women are willing to expose.

Think short shorts.

Think tube tops.

Then consider Pagasa’s pronouncement that the temperature could hit 40° C due to El Niño.

Perhaps summer aint that bad after all.


frequent visitor

Third time, I think. There must be something in Manila that attracts the Sandman. I heard it’s the calamansi juice.

el niño

It’s official. Her sweet Kashieca days are over.


The fantaserye that is the May 2010 elections is getting more and more interesting. Everyday there are new twists and turns, like in pro-wrestling.

Combined with sensible stories on gay boxing, drunk motorists figuring in accidents, and celebrities denying everything except their names, it makes primetime news such a happy trip.

Just last Wednesday survey favorite Noynoy Aquino suddenly found himself neck and neck with someone who is neck-deep in Jamby Madrigal. He saw the results and saw the image of Malacanang moving away from him, like a vision fading away. He and his backers are probably having nightmares in the afternoon these days.

But you have to give it to Money Villar. It takes cojones the size of Mindanao to be able to finally show up at the Senate, categorically deny that he’s a coward, and then walk out of the chamber to avoid getting grilled by his colleagues over the C-5 issue. I can almost hear the bastard whistling on his way out.

The only thing missing here is somebody coming up the ring and whacking somebody with a steel chair. But perhaps I speak too soon.


I am seriously considering getting myself inked. Well, why not?

Charmaine is planning to get one too, just for the heck of it. She’s considering an Opeth logo right above her pelvic bone. She’s also planning to have her nose pierced, which I think rocks. Big Suicide Girls fan here, man.

For me I’ve chosen the following designs:

Now, if only I could have the time — and money, of course; Raven is the priority — for such beautiful self-mutilation.