Balance/Balans

For a long time, I have never spent that much revelry with other people other than Lito and his partner, Paul, until last night. Lito just turned 40 and just like what they say, life begins at forty.

Balans is a decent restaurant within the heart of Soho. Situated right at the centre of Old Compton’s Street, there is no other venue a respectable gay guy would celebrate his natal day in the middle of the week. The dripping steel curtain made of tiny metal pellets pieced together, hangs to form the drape around the elevated platform in the inner sanctum of the restaurant. The ambiance it affords is a cosy intimate experience with an affordable and less pretentious menu.

A generic text reminder from Lito few days ago stated a red motif and dinner at 8 at the said restaurant. It was only last night when I realised how serious he was about the red motif when I had the chance to re-read the long text that had an air of importance, authority and formality. At nearly midnight, I rummaged through my piles of clothing trying to look for something with a hint of red. I never liked red but a teeny-weeny hint of red would do, I thought. Glancing at Bo’s wardrobe, I gladly took the checked-shirt with rustic red lines out of his drawer inconspicuously. It only confirmed how much I hated costume parties.

The night started with the choices of red and white wines accompanied by the clinking of glasses. A friend who I haven’t seen for a long time said that an empty stomach and a dose of alcohol combo are like flirting with metabolic and social disaster. He was true to his words as he started losing control of his choice of words verging from hilarity and comical enjoyment to rudeness. Fortunately it was the former that entertained the group. At Balans, a starter costs around £6 and the mains, £13 on average. I had the Greek salad and chose Sea Bass with potatoes, spinach and cream sauce for mains. It arrived in a beautifully garnished presentation which must be a portion of the price of the meal. Strange but true, being with people other than my usual close friends around me exchanging the usual tete-a-tete made me feel uneasy. The conversations floated around the idea of Father Time being a sneaky entity that has robbed everybody the chance to get to know each other’s business this past year. After the customary one-liners of social performance, chit-chats centred on the topic the whole group have major control of: the twists and trysts of being homosexual. Miss California Carrie Prejean must have had burning ears all night as she’s been cited few times for her outspokenness about the topic of religion and homosexuality. However, it is now just becoming a trite conversation to speak of her in more than one or two sentences so let me kill her from this point on.

Remember the guy sat next to me? With the night wearing on, his mental and physical coordination followed the same highway. That same road to losing control where you end up racking up the attention and giggles of the group terminating to a dead end street where you wonder the next day why you have no recollection of the night before and a tinge (if that’s just that) of regret of not knowing the mischief you’ve created at that time. However, that is not even close to what your real concerns are. I do not even have to mention it here for we probably have an idea where this is getting at (unless you haven’t touched alcohol your whole life or living life rather blissfully that alcohol is not an option to merrymaking with friends). I just read a note from this guy on Facebook (who I adore by the way for his candidness and openness) the next day extending his appreciation to one of our friends, who must have witnessed the meandering trek of a toddler to bed (Thanks Red for looking after our friend).

Why do I talk about this alcohol aftermath when all I ever wanted to say here is…….. the birthday boy, Lito, surely knows how to throw a party. His friends, although of same ethnic origin, are an array of personalities that truly complimented that evening. The cake adorned with fresh fruits and thick icing cream was delectable but the evening was capped by that moving speech from his partner, Paul. To hear the words “I love you” that often in this day and age, you certainly qualify the meaning of it and the extent of how it’s meant. But as he uttered it with passion and tenderness, I looked at Lito and I could feel every enunciation and strength of words “I”, “love” and “you”, like that road you travel to eternity. I swear I never heard a single voice echoing that sentiment for few seconds, after Paul delivered his sentimental litany of birthday wishes to his other half. It was more of “sighs” and “gasps” followed by salutations of good health and happiness which from then on, you would certainly gather that “good health” and happiness” were mere words uttered but fully incomprehensible and unachievable in realistic terms. Lucky are we if we even claim a tiny percentage of it and without a tinge of lie in our brains, claim it as rightfully ours.

It was nearly midnight. Interestingly, despite the flowing orders of wine, the “per head” payment wasn’t astronomical as I expected. I therefore conclude that fun doesn’t have to be a product of “ohs” and “ahs” from the grandiose and lavish presentations of ones birthday but the conspiracy of people who make it an interesting evening regardless of individual differences or personal agenda. I hugged Lito goodbye and exchanged genuine pleasantries to my friends before minding my own desperate intention of finding the nearest route home. They stayed at a nearby pub, The Village and continued the merriment.

To learn something or to know something about people is always a great deal. The (life’s) box that we live in provides a safe haven for our existence in daily grinds but can be truly limiting at times. Feeling safe within your own limitations and strengths is rewarding especially when peace and stability become a measure of living. But a venture outside that box is another measure. It only proves how man is a complex being that I wouldn’t even try to explain a fraction of it. I told Bo last night that perhaps a slightly bigger box is good. Lito being my tennis partner comes with few accessories.

It was nice to see familiar faces and having a totally out of this world conversation. I can’t imagine myself in solitary confinement for it is truly unjust. I want a “blabbering drunken friend” next to me sometimes than an electrical gadget where I pour my heart out most of the time.

My professional diary is full but my personal one is half empty. I have to start taking appointments.

pancit and puto

Today’s tube travel has gone more international than ever. Trying to eavesdrop stealthily in conversations around me, I could pinpoint around six languages in half the carriage I was in. My native language would be the seventh if it was alright to talk to myself without warranting unwanted gaze from people.

Is it good that the world has become smaller and smaller each time? Is blending a real gem in surviving the Homo sapiens species? Is difference a good thing? Is cultural amalgamation always about sharing differences and understanding it? Is there limitation to what you can tolerate in this society we are in?

Two weeks ago, I was informed to be vigilant of people talking in their own language at work. As specified, apparently a group of staff members keep on blabbering on, in a language too foreign for people in the health service I work in. Despite the fusion of cultures, there is an aspect of professionalism that puts a demarcation line between freedom of expression and rudeness.

One day I was at work, if I closed my eyes, I sure did think that I was in the lovely paradise called Philippines haggling for some bargains. For that moment, I was transported miles away from the reality of working my wages worth of hard work in a foreign soil. I asked one of my colleagues about it and mumbled, “It is actually improving...” after being asked if staff members were talking in another language at work. He added, “Staff now chooses when the right time is to talk in their own language”. With that notion, I went to the staff room to relieve my hunger with fish and chips and the moment I opened the door, the strong sense of being at home hit me hard but sweet. It was as if I was in Recto, Manila queuing to pay for that street grub dipped in a concoction of vinegar and chilli. My Filipino colleagues were in the staff room partaking on “pancit” and “puto” from yesterday’s “binyag” (christening). However, it was strange to talk to them in English and getting “Tagalog” in response. Eventually, I gave in.

What the heck! I will reserve my English vocabulary to good use later. I’m sure back in the office, I’d bleed yet again trying to enunciate the English language in full force. I could do a bit of rest.

“Neng, ansarap naman ng puto?”

Warm, Cold

Tidbits from “Låt den rätte komma in”

In an utterly sad, solitary moment, sheets of snow drizzled over into nothingness.

The woman starting to exhibit signs of vampire manifestation after being bitten by Eli said to the medic, “I don’t want to live. Please pull up the curtain”. Her scream was drowned by her own spontaneous combustion as the hospital room was flooded by natural light.

The bully was pushing Oskar under the water clutching on his (Oskar’s) golden locks. He said, “....an eye for an ear......” after his younger bully-brother was hit by Oskar with a stick on his ear. The white round clock in the school pool was ticking towards a minute with Oskar still held down by the head. With his eyes closed, he could hear a faint sound of rumble and seemingly screaming voices but ignored it. A few more seconds and the chaos began but the savage attack was downplayed by Oskar’s faint struggle under water as he let out few air bubbles from his downtrodden self. Still oblivious to what’s happening, ripples in the water saw the drowning of the severed head followed by the arm that held Oskar captive for nearly a minute. A quick swipe of rescue from Eli saw him pulled up from the pool, now realising the blood-splattered tiles.

Oskar asked Eli if she’s a vampire. She replied, “I live off blood” as they gently traced each other’s palms over the translucent glass door that separated them. She showed him in and excitingly mentioned, “you can buy a nuclear plant with that”, pointing towards the rounded table where the collection of highly-priced valuables were stacked.

She rang the doorbell. Oskar went to open the door but Eli was hesitant to come in. She reiterated, “you have to let me in”, but Oskar being bewildered and naughtily in a toying mood, opened the door wide and gestured with his index finger trying to let her in (still not saying the words). With hesitation, she wearily made few steps in and looked at Oskar. Stood there for few seconds, her dress started to get drenched with blood followed by the weeping of blood from her ears, nose and eyes. Startled and deeply concerned, he exclaimed “No!” and voiced out “come in”. Tenderly, he wrapped her around his arms and sobbed.

The snowflakes unabatedly painted the dark night with its nonchalance and reticence.

Finding solace on E-71 chronicling the day

It is Tuesday and London has been blessed by early morning sunshine. Wearing a shirt sans jacket is a relief. Voluminous layers can be suffocating. The bus has arrived on time and the tube’s like an apparition. The voiceover of the station operator mentioned a good service all over the tube stations. It seems like my day is starting off with a fair wind blowing through the sails.

An hour later and I will be facing a stranger who I will entrust my tooth if not my life under his/her fiddly hands. My appointment to see the dentist is something I don’t really look forward to. Those who have been could relate to this. I wonder if I’d hear an explosion of operatic singing whilst the drilling of my tooth is in operation. That is what they say about the usual trip to dentists. You hear Callas amidst the organised chaos of dental surgery. In contrast, I think that would be a welcoming thought and calming at the same time.

Fast forward one hour and like a herded sheep, I am now in the group of people seeking relief from the gods of oral care (such a lucrative business). It is a good sign when the clerk greets you with a smile. Now, the waiting is another journey to a plain road well travelled. The queue overwhelms it. Guy’s and St. Thomas’ Hospital (GSTT) being a teaching hospital, had a student called Maria with a surname ending in “...owski” examining my mouth. She prodded on the inside of my mouth like fishing for new underwater species. My wisdom tooth apparently, as she uttered with the nodding professor next to her, is now dying (technically incorrect, as they were mumbling in hifalutin codes). It has gnashed too much meat in its lifetime.

Getting an intervention under NHS (National Health Service) is snail-slow. The red tape and bureaucracy that accompany treatment summed up altogether could mean total death to my tooth before it gets resuscitated. I am being kind in that description. I have no one to blame but the system warranting an impetus of drastic change. I am getting tired now but I am still waiting for the radiographer to do an x-ray of my mouth. However, looking at the heaving mass of tooth-related bodies in waiting, I’d be here forever. Patience is my only ally right now.

With such vehemence brewing, it is worthy to note and divert to the notion that a human body is fragile. It is no rocket science to know that, but a slew of mouths in agony within the department clearly prove that point. We are just talking about a tooth here not to mention the multisystem components that make up a man. I have an idea of what they are planning to do for me but getting there seems more tedious than the actual procedure itself.

Right now, I feel like a caveman queuing for treatment in the 21st century (or a new-age man queuing during the Palaeolithic Age). Private treatment is an option but a £235 payment for this wisdom tooth during economic recession is ludicrous.

Patience is a virtue and so is frugality, in this financial climate.

bowling for zest

On the subject of bowling, I couldn’t help but realise how tricky it is to maintain control and consistency. With the dark clouds looming across Central London, I had an epiphany.

Ten-pin bowling I thought was a game for people lacking in motivation but going through six games of ball-sliding-and-skidding across the lane made me rethink my opinion of the sport. Lito and I out of desperation opted to be productive after a drizzle of rain prompted us to cancel the play of tennis. Lito being a highly motivated bowler suggested we try ten-pin bowling to redress the wasted time on top of that anticipation of bashing balls. And so, I tagged along.

As I bowled intermittent strikes, I thought of how “strikes” reflected the fun-parody of life. It categorically simulated nothing less of existence and triumphs associated with it. Occasional “spare” meant more of possibilities of mending ways than success. It reminded me of getting a chance after a dismal flop in an endeavour. Of course there were frequent odds of tumbled pins after two bowls and certainly resounded like trials and tribulations. I wasn’t sure about the “Girls Aloud” number goading me to play better on the background but finding consistency and control over play was a matter of fact.

Similarities between life and bowling are uncanny. It follows that vicious cycle of being up and down in every aspect of the game, as with living. It is just funny how sports in general herald triumph over hurdles, obstacles and competitiveness against each other with fair play. It sure is a mirror of how subconsciously, we as civilised beings fight it out for existence in this world of confusing ideologies and fervours.

With sports, media promotion burrows deeply on how it promotes healthy wellbeing. They are spot on especially on developing our primal instincts in surviving the diurnal grind.

Now, hand me that basketball. It’s time to learn that darn sport.

being funny

I was told to be funny but I always thought I was clowning around most times and being funny. An ex- friend of mine used to call me to entertain her friends from abroad and make myself a jester of her home. Few years later and I stopped being funny. Then, I was told that cry-babies usually are funny when they grow up. So let me tell you this: my mother got fed up with my incessant screeching she wore earplugs in the end.

To trace back, my mother has never failed mouthing to our guests about my past. A slight interest about my childhood turns into a festive giggles of my mother telling them stories about the bawling until I croaked. Such one man concerto of wailing was extremely annoying that I drove my parents insane and left me to the unsuspecting nanny.

So, I have gathered few theories related to this.

*It must be an outpour of angst and tribulations at a young age to prepare for the challenges of the mature life. It must be my physical response to desensitisation to a foresight of misery in the future. Or it could be a striking balance to the wheel of life.

*Also, it must be projected that I have a better future ahead that downfall is not an option to living as I grow older. Such release of negative vibes through crying cleansed my body and soul to failures or sensitivity to it. Is my death a happy celebration?

*My folks said that children who cry a river during infancy tend to become a public speaker or someone who has free and loose rein of his mental outflow. If not, they also end up as insecure people who crave for constant attention. Or better yet, a singer. The wailing must be an exercise to help fully reach maximum potential of the lungs and other vital organs thus aiding to better lifespan, good health and operatic voice.

*On the sensible side, it could mean deprivation both orally and mentally. It could just be lack of attention from your mother who opted to work far from home after a few months of delivery. It must have been instilled in the infant's psyche that they are supposed to taste the colostrum and natural breast milk rather than the mass manufactured milk. Perhaps at that early stage, they must have been given an idea that bonding is rather a do or die situation wherein missing it would mean a bleak future.

But what has funny got to do with a lot of crying. I must have channelled that vibe to my friends and colleagues about my miserable past that it makes them laugh. Mostly, it is funny when the person we watch at comedy bars and films make fun of people or themselves. It gives us that impression that even for once someone lives a life more pitiful than our present existence.

That’s why, my ex-friend stopped calling me to make them laugh for I must have outgrown the insecure and miserable me.

toothache

It took more than a week to ravage my existential living. It certainly kept me off life’s networking radar for a certain time that it made my conversation with my usual chums like a catch up of the century. I must have memorised the routine of each TV program from 4:30 pm onwards and kept my internet favourite-added “tennis.com” busy the past days. I must have scanned my friends blog sites a few times a day hoping they’d updated the site to fill my unquenchable thirst for connection.

It has totally validated my fear of synthetic pills to appease my raging neural stimulation with an after-effect of intermittent bouts of nausea. I feared for my own reaction to trappings of mortality that a gentle swipe of Death’s scythe would render me forever gone to the emotional ambivalence to earthly habitation. The hunt for Easter egg was channelled through the desperate hunt for a better TV channel as I flicked the button like compulsion. The 4-day off to my working schedule was a truly well spent sojourn to a peaceful repose in bed as I swallowed a glassful of sarcasm.


The filling of my wisdom tooth loosened from the grinding and mastication of red meat a week before all these hellish symptoms came out. It has exposed my tooth’s viscera and wrecked havoc with my nervous system since then. It seemed like an eternity of pain that paracetamol, orajel and ibuprofen were my best buddies round the clock.

I guess, pain has friends in all places. It just doesn’t attack your head but it also targets your temper, your finger and your toes. And yes, it makes you literally mock life for an indulgent and self-professed non-existence.

H-102

Today’s lesson is HOMOPHOBIA 102. H101 is something that is currently gracing the pages of tabloids, books and other sources of mass media about how gay people are not to be scared of and not to be subjected to prejudice. The long battle that took a million years until Propaganda 8 got a nod in California. However, the ongoing battle or should I say, campaign for gender equality to the narrow streets of misconception and dark alleys of remote areas and “haters” backyards, continues. Homophobia 101 tackles that global information dissemination of how human rights come into the picture of respect for diversity which befittingly includes gender equality.

H102 is what I’d call the “breaking down” of the specifics. Where H101 attempts to diffuse if not eradicate ignorance of homosexual existence, H102 will hopefully verge into cultural issues about it and stereotyping. I don’t want to preach about it in complete verbatim for I am sure that it would yield a million if not more monstrous enormity in retrospect. My distant (I call it that way for my lack of respect and sympathy for ignorance) relative has fully expressed his unwanted opinion about the subject. Despite having the luxury of massive plasma screen and educated background, the moron that is perhaps innate of him comes out to the fore for his lack of understanding of the thing called individual differences and societal perception of issues. Judgment passed upon other people is as clear as black and white from his monochrome mindset that he’d probably not flinch even a nerve to know his raw monocellular devolution.

This may make a nonsensical rhetoric but I was slighted by the stupid remark, despite the thousands of miles that separate me from my family and that overbearing and meddlesome ogre from the Far East.

On a less gay-er note, the thing that made me smile at 1 am was the letter I received from Fremantle Media Limited. I got an audition for X-Factor this year. At that time when I sent my application online, I thought it would be fun. I am convinced it would be.

Human

For over three hours, his tenacity and his inexorable assault on the ball vacillated in the slightly windy crisp Miami evening. Rafael Nadal has caused a myriad of tennis theories in the recent aftermath of the 3rd quarterfinal match of the tourney. This year’s Sony Ericsson Open at Key Biscayne, Miami has been a roaring witness to limelight-hugging twists and upsets as the rounds progressed towards the near end of the tournament. The grandstand of this Open has witnessed the scintillating effect of the whole gamut of emotions not just between the competing warriors on each side of the court but the partisan crowds of the proceeding.

I have been following the Livescores on http://www.tennis.com/ these past days. Even the toilet became my peaceful sanctuary for few minutes to browse the updated results of tennis matches. Nadal has cleared his way through to the quarterfinals without dropping a set. The stern test came on the fourth round when he faced the second best man from Switzerland. It was a two-set tie-breaker against Stanislas Wawrinka. Nadal’s quarterfinal was against JMDP (Juan Martin Del Potro) and as headlined by most of the tennis blogs I have read, the former wasted the early two breaks of serve in the last set allowing Del Potro to claw his way out of the brink of defeat and meltdown. Finally, JMDP won the 3rd quarterfinal of the Open, 6-4 3-6 7-6. Amidst the noise of the partisan Miami crowd (as dominated by the Latinos cheering and goading on their hero- Del Potro), Nadal battled against the fate of losing with his unwavering steely reserve, extending the agony to the third set tie-breaker despite facing two match points at 5-6 whilst serving.

Watching this match on my 15.1” laptop as streamed by a tennis moderator at Justin.TV was bliss. The moderator himself being a Federer fan was hoping for an upset even before the match started. On the side of the streaming video was the chatroom of tennis enthusiasts blabbing about their tennis heroes and at the same time, bad-mouthing each other vying for opinion supremacy about the subject. It was a tempting room to dish out tennis know how and statistics and so I did. In between points, chatting was a liberating moment of getting people of the same interest rally towards a goal that other people outside of this sport obsession would find odd and peculiar. It also kept me entertained as the clock in front of me was beckoning a nightcap of the day. With the passing of hours, my interest waned as the rowdy chatmates threw a back and forth malign influence at each other. It was during this time that I saw telltale signs of Nadal’s deep-seated vulnerability:

· As the camera zoomed in on Nadal, he was about to serve in the ad court. Following his routine gesticulations, he appeared clumsy as he dribbled the tennis ball. It drifted off his right hand as if concentration was lacking.
· His uncharacteristic unforced errors were more evident on his forehand side. He usually plays high percentage tennis but kept missing the court not to mention the lines. He racked up more unforced errors compared to his early matches combined.
· He lacked depth with his shots which allowed Del Potro to pounce on them to the corners. The balls floated in the middle of the court as if begging for a good killing.
· His backhand that has improved over the past months was lacking the oomph and grit.
· His face was tired-looking. He looked spent and weary. During the press conference he mentioned, ““Always is a reason because you are not playing at your level during the tournament. No, I am calm. I am happy about myself, about everything this year, yeah. . . I don't know. Always is a reason, but it's personal.”

With that piece of Rafa’s mind, only time would tell as to what was nagging that relentless and impenetrable psyche of his. As far as I know, Nadal drifted in and out of the court for over three hours with a burden only him knew (or perhaps Uncle Toni as well). Rafa lost this match. He lost the match but without giving it on a silver plate. JMDP had to battle his own human weaknesses and bargain with the spirits to allay his weakening self against the tenacious Nadal.

However, a dent in Nadal’s armour is usually a good thing. The man from Manacor, Majorca is a fierce fighter who at the sight of his own blood triggers the juggernaut within himself. From there, he fights from the word GO.