Thanks, Eric

Did you know that Eric Ramos has quit as FHM Philippine’s editor-in-chief? Bet you didn’t. I mean you’re probably in a hurry to masturbate to the pictorial of the starlet du jour on the cover to spare any moment’s notice on those pages which contain words instead of pictures once you get your hairy palms on the latest issue of the magazine.

My brother collects FHM and I was reading the November issue with Phoemela Barranda on the cover wearing a red bikini, and read Eric’s last missive. He was deliberately vague in giving the reason for his departure, only that there were “irreconcilable differences” between him and the powers that be on which direction the magazine should take.

I don’t know about you but I think that the only way there could be “irreconcilable differences” is if one of the parties involved wanted to start publishing pictures of half-naked men instead of half-naked women – now that’s a different motherfucking direction. Let’s face it, FHM is all about pictures of hot chicks in various stages of undress, albeit done in a relatively “tasteful” way – meaning that there is always a strategically placed hand or inanimate object to cover, well, the hooch. With that kind of straightforward objective, how can there be differences – irreconcilable or otherwise?

I remember meeting Eric Ramos in one of those wild FHM parties at the NBC Tent. I kinda know someone who knew someone and I was given special tickets to the VIP section near the stage and the dressing rooms. This area was just a few feet off the stage but I still couldn’t see jack shit because of the number of people who managed to get in. As crowded as it was inside, there were more people outside who wanted to get in but it was just physically impossible to do so. As a result, a riot broke out and some fucking asshole threw a beer bottle. This girl with a bloody gash on her face got pushed and I was at the receiving end, and so I got blood on my white shirt. Word to the wise: It’s hard enough as it is trying to chat-up women at a crowded and noisy party but try doing that with a bloody white shirt too.

Anyway, I congratulated Eric on the big turnout and he just smiled and said that he was worried about all the people outside who couldn’t get in. I said that he was the victim of his own success and he kinda smiled at that. I really meant it though. He deserves all the credit for building the Philippine edition of the British magazine from the ground up. It’s now the no. 1 glossy in the country with a readership of something like a150,000. This is no easy task.

Or maybe it is. Honestly, what degree of difficulty is involved in asking men to fork out money to see pictures of hot chicks in bikinis?

Damn You, Cesar Montano!

Did you watch the Sunday chismis shows two weeks ago? One of chismaks items The Buzz and S-Files were falling over themselves in being the first one to report was the alleged affair that went on between Juliana Palermo and Cesar Montano when they were filming the latter’s initial foray into directing, Panaghoy sa Suba (Call of the River).

Cesar’s wife, Sunshine Cruz, was fuming mad at Juliana and entirely blames her for the whole affair. She asked how Juliana could have a relationship with a married man. Didn’t she have any sense of decency and propriety? Apparently this Montano guy is some kind of Teflon-coated retard who is devoid of free will and is therefore automatically absolved of any complicity and involvement in the affair because it was all Juliana’s doing. By implication, Cesar had ceded all function, control, and responsibility of his penis to Juliana.

Last Sunday, Touch Mobile launched its newest campaign and who would be the celebrity at the forefront of this blitzkrieg? Why, it’s Cesar Montano!

Mr. and Mrs. Montano were then kind enough to grant Joey Marquez of S-Files a pre-recorded interview to clear up a few things about the state of their marriage. I’m happy to say that it’s going as strong as ever. In fact, problems and trials would only serve to further strengthen their union. To prove that their family is intact and happy as ever, Cesar offered to call his son who was in Bohol at the moment the interview was taking place. He takes out his cellphone and starts calling his son. He then says, “Piso lang ang tawag na ito sa Touch Mobile.”

WHAT THE FUCK?

Then Cesar appears by his lonesome and live on The Buzz to ostensibly convince everyone of the stability of his marriage. As proof, he whips out his fucking cellphone and proceeds to call Sunshine Cruz live, but not before adding that, “Piso lang ang tawag na ito sa Touch Mobile.”

WHAT THE FUCK?

Is it coincidence that Cesar’s infidelity became an issue when a) his filmfest entry had come out; and b) Touch Mobile had launched its “piso” campaign with him headlining it?

But, damn it. No one can stoop so low as to make a mockery of a marriage just to whore a movie and a cellphone company. I mean that’s just plain evil, right?

Dagat Dose

Next to the visit of a released kidnapped hostage to meet the President in Malacanang, the most choreographed, coordinated, and orchestrated affair in the whole world would have to be coming out with a movie poster for the next Hollywood blockbuster. Nothing is left to chance. The position of each chest hair, teeth gleam, push-up bra, and underwear bulge on the actor has been studied, debated then agreed on, and consequently fought over again and again. Professional writers have spent many sleepless nights in coming up with a tagline that zings like a Zen koan in its simplicity (my favorite tagline which does sound like a Zen koan is Booty Call’s “Some guys will do anything for a little somethin’ somethin’ ”). In short, the whole process that goes in the creation of a movie poster is the exact opposite of spontaneity and sincerity.

Take the following poster of Ocean’s 12 for example:



Put your ear close to it and you hear the faint echoes of the footsteps of a thousand people shuffling here and there and moving heaven and earth to show you the virtues of the sequel in one big visual and visceral feast, but within the limitations of a 27” x 40” poster frame.

Leading the pack is of course George Clooney. It’s obvious why he gets top-billing and is the most prominent figure on the poster. He plays the eponymous character of the title’s possessive. Did you think the studio bosses hesitated just a little bit in putting Clooney in such high regard? I’m thinking that they did a bit. After all, wasn’t Ocean’s 11 his last legitimate hit? Wasn’t that three years ago? Okay, I guess they did think it a was alright for Clooney to be the main man with that suave move of his fixing his cuffs – provided that walking so very near at his back that it seems like he’s getting ready to grab Clooney’s ass is…

Brad Pitt. On the poster, he’s several degrees smaller in stature compared to Clooney because, I’m thinking, of the disappointing performance of Troy at the US box office and the fact that his last legitimate hit too was Ocean’s 11. Why does Brad get to have the second most prominent spot on the poster? I’m guessing it’s because his character Rusty Ryan plays Deputy Dawg to Clooney’s Danny Ocean. If this weren’t so, the guy most deserving Brad’s, hell even Clooney’s, spot is the guy who comes walking in third…

Matt Damon. He kicked box-office ass last year with the most unexpected success of The Bourne Supremacy, earning USD180 million in the US alone. You gotta give the guy credit – he totally carried the movie like he’s been carrying Ben Affleck in their partnership all these years. After all, what has the Bourne franchise going for it if not for little Matty Damon’s star power? The first one, The Bourne Identity, did tremendous business at both the worldwide box office (USD200 million) and DVD sales (USD90 million) and was the top video home rental for 2003. It’s so unbelievable to me that the Bourne movies have reached the level of success that each one has. For me, neither one is really good as riveting-arms-to-your-seat-thrill-ride-a-minute action movie. I mean, they aren’t even faithful to the Robert Ludlum novels of the same titles from which both were adapted. Looking at the poster, I kinda get an inkling on why Matt’s on third billing despite being the most successful of the ensemble at the moment in fickle-brained Hollywood. The studio bosses must have been thinking that Matt’s their ace in the hole, the low profile star who’s the go-to-guy for everyone who had passed on Clooney and Brad. That’s it, stick Matt right there in the middle – he’s the king of the sleeper hit for chrissakes. And on his heels is…

Julia Roberts. When was Julia’s last hit? No one in Hollywood even remembers. But by virtue of her past successes, Julia deserves her spot on the poster. She actually retains the same spot she had on the Ocean’s 11 poster – behind Clooney, Brad, and Matt – which means that nothing’s happened to her career since the first movie’s release in 2001.

Going down the line, you’ve got Catherine Zeta-Jones (hey, an Oscar award merits her her spot eventhough she wasn’t in the original), Don Cheadle (token black buy no. 1), Andy Garcia (oh my god, he was just behind Julia on the first movie’s poster...where's he gonna on the poster of the next movie? licking Casey Affleck's shoes?), and Bernie Mac (token black guy no. 2).

One last question I’d like to ask is why there are only eight people on the poster when the client clearly states that Danny Ocean has a team consisting of twelve individuals? Or is that a team of eleven people with Danny Ocean being the twelfth member?

Let’s see, the original members of the team are:

1) Rusty Ryan
2) Virgill Malloy
3) Turk Malloy
4) Yen
5) Frank Catton
6) Basher Tarr
7) Linus Caldwell
8) Saul Bloom
9) Livingston Dell
10) Reuben Tishkoff

There are only ten people on the list above. So that means that Danny Ocean is himself counted in the collective “Ocean’s 11” while Tess Ocean is member no. 12 and the reason for the change in the numerical reference. But wait, wasn’t she also in Ocean’s 11 in the first place? So if the same people comprise Ocean’s 11 and Ocean’s 12, aren’t they the same movie? Or how can it be a different movie, when you’ve got the same people in it?

Talk about a Zen koan.

La Guerra de Los Cruzes

Let me put my two cents in on the rift between Sheryl Cruz and the rest of the Cruz clan, ably led in the public arena by Mesdames Sunshine and Geneva Cruz. The two Cruz cousins are pissed off at Sheryl for apparently severing all ties to her father (their uncle) the late Ricky Belmonte, making her seem like the world’s biggest ingrate.

For reasons still unknown, Sheryl did not deign to come home when her dad was seriously ill and later on, when he passed away. She did, however, decide to go back later on to the Philippines to resume her showbiz career. Sunshine and Geneva are ticked off that Sheryl would snub her one and only father’s funeral but break her ass and leave the comforts of American suburbia, to appear regularly in Mulawin and display her acting chops in Mano Po 3. It’s even been reported that the first thing that Sheryl asked for when she got back to the country was ask where her dad’s abuloy was deposited.

Geneva also chided Sheryl for putting in an appearance at the wake of her uncle, FPJ. She seemed to ask: Where was Sheryll during her own father’s wake to offer such a public display of grief and familial support?

Now, I don’t personally know Sheryl Cruz and can’t really tell you if the ingrate accusation sticks. On the surface, it does – like wet fart to white underwear. It’s hard to understand her reason for missing her father’s funeral. However that is exactly the point: Sheryl has her reason for doing so. It’s safe to say that she knew her father more than her two cousins ever did. Whatever fucked-up dysfunctional reason that is, she thought it fair to go on with her actions and diss her father’s memory. I’m sure it was a decision that didn’t come lightly. Perhaps her anger is fuelled by something her father did which caused Sheryl so much grief and heartbreak – an act so terrible that a daughter would be downright incredulous to believe that a father could be capable of such villainy.

There’s a multiplier effect for parents where the consequences of their acts are intensified so many times, compared to those of other family members. When your father lies to you, this is more hurtful than, say, your uncle being guilty of the same indiscretion. You can always go, “Oh that shithead uncle of mine, he’s done it again!” But you can never be that cavalier towards a parent and attribute wrongdoing to “shitheadedness.”

Sheryl still hasn’t come out in the open to tell all of us her reasons for feeling that way about her father and his memory. Whatever “that” is is extremely private and something which we are not rightfully privy to. We have absolutely no right to tell her how to act and feel being her father’s daughter. Besides, how can we expect anyone who made the enlightened decision to do movies like “Huwag Mong Buhayin ang Bangkay!” and “Milyonaryong Mini” to be so wrong in other matters as equally weighty?

Oh, the Humanity

My car was grounded yesterday because of the shit-eating/donkey-sucking MMDA color coding scheme and so I decided to take the MRT to work. I actually look forward to riding the MRT because I gain so much insight to the human psyche which I’m otherwise deprived of inside the hermitically-sealed environment of my car.

Yesterday was no exception. Getting on the goddamn train was a challenge as usual because of the huge mass of people trying to get into an entryway the size of an aparador. Actually, you don’t as much as walk into the doors by your own volition than rather being carried through there, with both feet off the ground, by the sheer force of the people behind you pushing and shoving to get in.

So there I was squeezed in at the rear section of the train where I got a good view of the people on the next car behind ours. This lady’s handbag was poking my back and when I turned to see if I could maneuver just a bit more to avoid it, I saw that it was a Murakami Louis Vuitton bag. Jesus, lady, who you trying to fool with that knockoff? If that were the real thing, wouldn’t you have any regard for your personal safety at all? Couldn’t you afford a Murakami and a car at the same time? Not even a fucking Kia Picanto which is actually worth as much as a real Murakami? That’s so you can park your ass inside your own car, not get on the MRT, and not poke me with your stupid handbag.

Then a ruckus started. One guy shouted at another guy to stop pushing him. The alleged pusher shouted right back and then there these slapping sounds I heard. I had my back turned and just couldn’t managed to get any view at all of the commotion because of this impenetrable wall of mankind blocking me.

It’s enlightening to know that people won’t just stand to see two assholes fighting in a crowded train. As soon as the slapping sounds started, a bunch of voices admonished the two hooligans to stop fighting.

I heard the following comments in addition to the expected “Tumigil nga kayo!”:

“Kalalaki niyong tao ang aarte niyo!”

“Umagang umaga nagaaway kayo!”

One lady saw fit to make an observation and a suggestion in one zing:

“Nagsisigsikan kasi rito sa pintuan! Yung mga matatangkad, punta nga kayo sa gitna! Ang luwag-luwag don!”

To which a pasaway shouted:

“Kayo ho kaya pumunta sa gitna para maramdaman niyo yung luwag don!”

As pissed-off as these two fuckers were, they stopped haranguing each other. The last I heard about the issue was when the pusher got off the train and said in a rather obvious manner for everyone to hear, “EXCUSE ME, HA?”

The MRT ride went on without any further incident and I got off at my station. I went in line for a ride on the aircon jeepneys which go around the business district.

I was seated next to this chick and for some reason absolutely unknown to me, she started singing along to the song playing on the radio OUT LOUD. I remember it was Michael Martin Murphy’s saccharine and asinine “Maybe This Time.”

I shit you not. The chick got her wallet out and took some stuff from it while all the while singing her guts out. I was actually more amused than annoyed. Her singing voice wasn’t that good but it wasn’t that bad either. But then again, the issue I had was not the quality of her voice but rather her mental state – I mean, c’mon, even if you sound like Regine Velasquez, you just don’t start singing inside a public utility vehicle. And the song selection made to display her singing prowess, sheesh. Alright lady, I get it. You know the words to a song that became a hit when people were just waking up to the idea that this Marcos guy was some sort of crook.

She managed to catch the middle part of the song when she started singing and then it ended. The next song that began playing was Beverly Craven’s “Promise Me.”

To my surprise, Regine shut her pie-hole and didn’t sing along. Did a belated sense of embarrassment finally get to her just in the nick of time?

Oh no. When the chorus came up, she began wailing, “Oh promise me, you’ll wait for me…”

And that’s how she was when I got down.

Oh, the humanity.

Virgin Territory for Strip Mining

Being the start of the new year and all, we've got a new girl working at the office. I told the guy next to me that I thought she looked like KC Concepcion. He said that she was more Elaine Cuneta-ish and he couldn't have been more right.

Ah, a brand spanking new year. Typically, this would be a time for new year metaphors like "clean slate", "wide open road", and "virgin territory for strip-mining" but I would like to take this opportunity to look back and show you some of the pictures I took with my cellphone in Spain.

But first, introductions are in order. The red thing with the Side Show Bob hair is my mascot Diego. I used Diego as my alter ego in my pictures below because, well, I'm not allowed to show pictures of myself on the Web per career-enhancing advice received from Tito Douglas Quijano.

Here's a shot of the view from my apartment window. The name of this street is Ronda General Mitre. I walked the whole stretch of Mitre everyday on my way to and from work. That's twenty minutes worth either way.



This one is a picture of Diego flat on his ass soussed on San Miguel Beer. Yes, Virgina, there is San Miguel Beer in Spain and it's got a higher alcohol content. It tastes a whole lot better too I think - crispier and less gassy.



Ah yeah, the mami shot. This is the one and only instant noodle soup packet I could find in all the supermercados of Barcelona. Apparently, the technology involved in freeze-drying noodles and powderizing chicken flavor is totally alien to the Iberian peninsula.




There is actually a brand of crispy biscuits coated in chocolate called, I'm not kidding, Filipinos. I've asked some of the girls at the office if they would care to eat a Filipino and they would usually say yes. Then I'd tell them, "By the way, would you like a chocolate biscuit too?"



Here's a view from, in my opinion, the coolest KFC outlet in the whole world. It's the one close to the Sagrada Familia - Barcelona's most famous landmark. The construction of the Sagrada started more than a hundred years ago and it's still not finished. The name of its most famous architect, Antononi Gaudi, has been immortalized in the English word "gaudy." If you see the real thing, you'll know why. If you take the subway to the Sagrada Familia stop, you'll go up the exit stairs with your back to the Sagrada. Then, you slowly turn around and the majesty of the structure just hits you. See the amazing sets of twin spires? I wasn't referring to the two white chicks by the way.



Here's a shot of my lunch at that time. Sigh. I miss KFC.



Oh wait, I just had lunch there.

That's it for now. I'll have some more in the coming weeks - Tito Dougs permitting of course.