I give up on the whole ordeal,
and shall file it under things unreal.
The looking around is nauseating,
and simply too excruciating.
Any hope of being with her
Like prickly roses, wither.
But just you see, as I surrender,
that’s when Cupid finally sends her.
Originally written June 27, 2007. Minor edits with this version.
Is sending a friend request on Facebook the equivalent of asking for someone’s phone number? It certainly is as personal–even more so, in fact. It not only establishes a medium of communication between 2 people like the phone does, it also heralds the always open (browser) window to the other person’s online persona. This is assuming, of course, that the object of one’s affection has an FB profile and is active in the online social scene; but, in this voyeuristic and narcissistic day and age, who doesn’t and isn’t? Basically, in what would typically be unraveled by going on a date or two, a Pursuer can instead get the virtual low-down in a minute or two of viewing the Pursued’s profile. (Don’t even pretend you don’t do this, dear readers. We all googled the Pursued before Facebook came along, so don’t worry, you’re not a cyberstalking freak.)
I ponder this fact because, a few weeks ago, I was quite pleased with myself having finally asked a Pursued if I could add her on Facebook. (I asked before I did so to appear, er, gentlemanly. I’m an idiot, I know.) To my alcohol-muddied recollection, she replied with an inviting “yes.” However, it’s now been 3 weeks and I still see this beside her FB profile.
The feeling I get when I see this — and yes, I look at it everyday — is reminiscent of the dreaded wait for a callback after leaving a blundering voice mail, or the anticipation of hearing the iPhone make that SMS tone after dispatching a flirty but ill-conceived text message. Maybe I spooked her by friending too soon–as in, 1 day after asking. Is there already proper etiquette on how soon one can friend someone on Facebook? Or, do we just rehash the rule for the post-encounter phone call, i.e., do it 2 days after?
Be it via phone lines, cell towers or fiber optic cables, I know, at least, one thing remains the same: my results are consistent however way I do it. FML.
[continuation of my previous entry]
The art scene got old by the time 7pm came around. To bid a fond adieu to the gallery and its open bar goodness (and since we weren’t allowed to bring any of the free booze out of the premises), Susan slyly hid my plastic cup of cranberry vodka and her Ketel One with Diet Coke under her coat as we slipped by and giggled at the guardians of the front door. Unfortunately, Vu was unaware of the “no to-go” policy and tried to exit without proper booze concealment and, therefore, got his stash tragically sequestered.
Before we proceeded to the California Theater to watch CineQuest’s closing film, Mother, we stopped at Fahrenheit lounge to replenish our bodies with food that had actual nutritional value. But, of course, while there we ordered more cocktails. I had a very fruity lychee martini and something else, which I no longer recall at this point. Neither do I remember the drinks of my 2 companions, nor the food we ordered. (As you can tell, alcoholic amnesia had already kicked in.) After some very speedy consumption, we headed out to see the movie, which turned out to be quite engaging. Sitting — or in Susan’s case, sleeping — through it was also a good way of sobering up from all the pre-movie madness we engaged in.
By the time the ending credits were scrolling up the silver screen, we were like rejuvenated boxers ready for more rounds of rigorous rigmarole. Stepping out of the theater, Vu purposefully directed us to the first club we chanced upon, Brix, on 349 South First St. The nightclub had a nice exterior and there was a small line at the door, so it looked inviting and promising. However, the very first step I took past the entrance, I knew something was amiss. While San Jose is often referred to as “Man Jose” because of its population’s lopsided ratio of more guys than girls (in nightlife venues, at least), this place was practically packed with only dudes. Mere seconds past the front door, I realized Vu had just led me to my first LGBT nightclub. (That fool is slowly peeking out of his closet, methinks.)
Not dismissing any opportunity to have a good time, we lingered for a bit, sipping our drinks while wondrously enamored with the unfamiliar vibe and scene. I ordered my favorite drink, an apple martini, taking advantage of the only place where I won’t get ridiculed for ordering such a cocktail.
At some point, some dude ended up dancing shirtless on the dance floor as his companion playfully twirled the pink polo shirt he previously had on. Such a different ambiance indeed. (The music was actually pretty good, too.) All this was happening, by the way, while Susan was lost in another world: She apparently found her calling as a fag hag, as one guy who just moved to San Jose from the East Coast fell in love with her at first sight and proceeded to corral her within his yearning arms for most of our time at the club. (He added her on Facebook right then and there.)
Obviously, I was not going to meet or dance with any viable ladies around here, so we decided to move on after the novelty of the scene wore off. The night was still young, after all, and there were lots more debauchery to be had.
The plan for last Saturday was innocuous enough: a late afternoon pre-show at an art gallery; then, viewing of the closing movie for the 2010 CineQuest film festival; and finally, an after-party with the indie movie-making glitterati. Sounds like a refined night of artistic and cultural immersion, right? Well, if you think that’s how it turned out, you obviously haven’t read this blog much, have you? For shame! But no worries. Just read on, my innocent, virgin reader …
————————————-
Cast: Myself, Vu and Susan
Location: Downtown San Jose
Date: March 6, 2010
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We arrived at the Institute of Contemporary Art on South First St. at about 6pm donning our flashy VIP passes (courtesy of Susan’s boss). By that time, the gallery was already abuzz with artsy-looking hipsters discussing the merits of various pieces of modern art that were mildly interesting, but not really engaging to my pedestrian eye. I think Vu and Susan shared my sentiments about the items on display; we were unfashionably blasé about it all.
Like thirsty vampires catching a whiff of fresh, oozing blood, we were instinctively drawn toward the true creations that appealed to our simpler, more primal sensibilities. Splashes of blue, red and white brought vibrant color to our enthused eyes — induced by artisans catering to a different palette. Oh, hell yeah! The shindig had an open bar!
Soon after finding this oasis that served up bottomless blue cosmos, cranberry vodkas and sparkly white wine, our blood alcohol level must have leapfrogged to Definitely DUI status (according to the chart on the right) since we made at least 5 trips to the bar in less than an hour. It was around this time when Vu suddenly found his inner art critic and started spewing interpretations of the paintings (“This reminds me of Winnie the Pooh,” or something to that effect). I, on the other hand, gained a more overt and forgiving appreciation — as I usually do under alcoholic influence — of female masterpieces as they passed by me within the small confines of the gallery, what with their evening wear teasingly silhouetting the sculptures that lay underneath. As for Susan, she was merrily content rubbing elbows with some girl friends while getting intimate with the virtues of Ketel One consumption.
And so there we were, not even 7 p.m. and already buzzed out of our minds. No good can come from this night, I thought, but we still had to soldier on to the next adventure that awaited past the gallery’s walls …
[To be continued]
Weekend in, weekend out, I numb my withered spirit by drowning in embittered spirits. Round after round, I drink; shot after shot, I sink. The routine has gotten old, as have I.
Gone are the days when such revelry proved adequately satisfying. Of late, they are just ritualistic reenactments of romanticized salad days. There has got to be something more out there; there just has to be.
As I wallow deeper in my self-prescribed disillusionment, Oscar Wilde’s words come to mind:
“We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars.”
So pour me another, bartender. Till I reach ethereal bliss, you are my only source of enchantment.
My dear teenage daughter asked me last night if I had seen “The Notebook,” and when I said I did, she proceeded to ask if I liked it. I clearly remember watching that movie and found it much too sappy, and so I told her I did not care for it. She gave me a quizzical look that, in no uncertain terms, questioned my very humanity. I felt like a heartless buffoon.
Now I’m not one who loathes love stories; I do have a heart after all, and it’s not made of stone either. But “The Notebook?” It’s just, well, too romantic. It’s like eating too much cheesecake: No matter how much I love cheesecake, eating too much of that creamy goodness will undoubtedly make me sick. And “The Notebook” is a whole lot of cheesecake for one sitting.
While I’m on the topic of movies and love stories, I remember posting an entry in my old blog after seeing a truly great one. This entry was originally posted 3 years and 9 months ago:
With all the fuss surrounding it, I finally watched “Brokeback Mountain” recently. And despite the impending teasing and confused musings that this post might elicit, I just have to say that the movie is profoundly moving. Yes, you heard that right, guys: Whether you are a homosexual, heterosexual, bisexual, asexual, or any other type of “sexual” I don’t even (wanna) know about, believe me, your orientation is just irrelevant … the movie is simply, universally worth watching. With so many a motion picture being touted as “a love story,” it just astounds me that it took a tale of 2 men–cowboys no less!–to capture the essence of what that is.
So ignore the intimidation, and put aside any inhibition; surely there involves no humiliation … in watching and appreciating this production. In the end, you might even want to thank me for prodding you to do so. Just don’t thank me by inviting me to go camping this summer. I’m just not outdoorsy like that.
I wonder where you are
I wonder if you think about me
Once upon a time
In your wildest dreams- In your Wildest Dreams, Moody Blues
I’m not sure how or why, but this morning, I woke up with “Wild World” by Cat Stevens (now known as Yusuf Islam) stuck in my head. As I searched my iPod for the tune, I chanced upon the quoted song above from the Moody Blues, and it brought back long-forgotten memories. I recalled how I absolutely adored this song back when I was an awkward junior at an all-boys Catholic high school in the capital city of the Philippines.
As I reminisced about those days of yore, the feeling of repression resurfaced as I recalled how I had to spend the majority of my days exclusively in the company of other boys. It felt like I was in a torturous incubation area for guilt-ridden, post-pubescent males. Especially at the age when boys’ hormones were at the peak of their volatility, such surroundings did not align with my ideal of an enclave conducive to pursuits of young love and other misadventures. I’m certain most of my fellow students felt the same way. As a reprieve from our homogeneous environment, and to keep us all relatively sane, we held parties, or “soirees” as we preferred to call them — feigning French to bring an amorous flair to the event, I guess — so we can meet and mingle with the delightful creatures of the opposite sex.
Typically, our class would pair up with an equivalent class at an all-girls Catholic school, who we wished to the high heavens — possibly the only time we prayed without being told to do so — felt as repressed as we did. It was in one of these soirees where I met Rachel.
The first time I saw her, she looked wonderfully angelic (Thank you, high heavens!): Long, black hair; sweet, innocent smile; coy, alluring eyes; quiet and introverted demeanor. I sensed a sleeping volcano in my midst, much like myself, waiting to be awoken from an uneventful existence. Luckily, my partner in crime — I believe this was just before Top Gun, so “wingman” probably wasn’t used in the sidekick sense yet — was equally enamored with Rachel’s cohort, so it was a winning pairing for us both.
I don’t remember much else that happened at that soiree–no recollection whatsoever of fumbling introductions, small talk, nor awkward silences, though I’m sure all of that occurred. I did end up with Rachel’s phone number somehow. Days after the soiree, I vaguely remember calling her once, but again, details of our exchange escape my fickle memory. We never ended up going on a date or anything like that. In fact, I don’t think we ever spoke after that phone call. For one reason or another, she just turned into one of the countless could-have-beens that were all too common for the timid, adolescent version of myself.
It was around this time that the Moody Blues song became popular, and every time it played on 99.5RT, my favorite radio station growing up, I would think about Rachel and couldn’t help but wonder if she did “think about me in her wildest dreams.”
I eventually crossed paths with Rachel again a few months after our phone call. It was during one of those school fairs wherein the school grounds turned into an amusement park with rides and booths and such. Such fairs were common at the private schools in Manila, and each school typically had one every year. For this particular occasion, I was at Rachel’s campus. She did not see me, at least I didn’t think so. I did see her face, and specifically noted her eyes; they looked different from the demure ones etched in my memory. I watched her walking away from me, hand-in-hand with another girl, as they got lost in a sea of other uniformed boys and girls reveling in the fleeting gloriousness of youth.
If I did muster the courage that day to approach her and ask if she ever thought about me, I take it Rachel would have replied, “In your wildest dreams.” Some questions are better left unasked.
What if you love the idea of settling down, but are just unwilling to settle?
When you pine for a bed of roses, but want it only if it had the right kind of petals.What if your excruciating wait for Mr. or Ms. Right leaves you with no one left?
And that happy ending you’ve been yearning, turns out to be regretfully bereft.
photo by Desirée Delgado
It’s all a lot of oysters, but no pearls
- A Long December, Counting Crows
This Counting Crows song is one of my favorites, and I especially like the quoted line above. There are certainly a lot of fish in the sea–well, oysters in this metaphor–but it is sure hard to find the catch.
The difficulty and seeming impossibility of it all is put into words eloquently by none other than the psychobabbling, cynical-but-romantic Woody Allen. Boris Yelnikoff (played by Larry David in Allen’s movie, Whatever Works) found his love only through sheer serendipity. In Boris’ words …
“And through an astronomical concatenation of circumstances, our paths cross. Two runaways in the vast, black, unspeakably violent and indifferent universe.”
Maybe I should stop looking so that I may finally find it. But I doubt it makes any difference, for we live in an indifferent universe indeed.
Hanging out by the bar of a club in downtown Los Gatos last night, I was feeling quite debonair in my gray cashmere sweater, complemented by a blue scarf which dangled from my neck ever so casually. In my right hand was my 3rd drink in less than hour, which, needless to say, I took swigs of in a less-than-gingerly manner. It was, after all, my drink of choice: a Martini. Shaken not stirred, you ask? Not exactly. Think less James Bond but more Carrie Bradshaw (of Sex and the City). Now, ridicule all you want, but I love my Apple Martinis, and I have been dubbed as the metrosexual James Bond by a friend due to my undying devotion to this drink.
Anyway, I was merrily sipping the sweet-and-sour goodness of the aforementioned cocktail when my sole wingman for the night, Vu, said something remarkably funny. (I don’t remember what it was, and he claims he did not say anything at all.) Despite my attempt to literally contain myself from laughter, I could not, and that’s when small particles of Appletini started spraying out my mouth, into the cold, dark air of the club … and onto Vu’s smiling noggin. No harm done, I thought, since Vu has seen me do far worse things than that when I’m, um, tipsy. But that was before I saw and heard this cutesy blonde in front of me, flanked by 2 burly dudes on each side, no less. She was wearing a sleeveless top and just happened to cross my path at the … exact … wrong … moment.
It felt like the rest of the club stood still as I, as did she, saw the mist — my saliva/vodka-laden mist — splattered on her arm. It was then she let loose a loud, horrific shriek:”EWWWWWWWW!”
Now, that has got to be one of the most memorable reactions I’ve received from a girl. (Beat that, 007!)
Because of this incident, however, I’m no longer considered as the metrosexual James Bond, but instead, am now dubbed as Shamu, the animal who spritzes cocktails out the blowhole. I think I like my old moniker much better.
