I love GSK.
I grew up on Fluarix, Ambrolex, Panadol, and Virlix.
But some jokes just write themselves.
- Everything they sell is placebos
- They’re giving everything away for free. Libreng gamot, amirite?
This made my day.
The never-ending debate: Who is the hottest Disney Prince ever, Prince Eric or General Shang?
On the one hand, you have The Little Mermaid’s Prince Eric, a rugged outdoors-y Richard Gomez lookalike who rocks a deeper v-neck than a 15-year-old hipster.
The good points:
On the downside, he does have his sordid past as a male go-go dancer to live with.
On the other hand, you have Mulan’s exotic Asian hunk, General Shang, leader of men, bad-ass drill sergeant, and owner of the broadest pair of shoulders among all of Disney’s leading men.
His good points:
He did however spend half the movie in awkward homosexual tension with the dude he thought Mulan was, which probably costs him about -12498 dude points (DP).
He also has the unfortunate misfortune of having Donny Osmond cast as his singing voice, a man Weird Al Yankovic once described as “the whitest nerd I know.”
So girls, speak up: #TeamEric or #TeamShang?
For someone who claims to be all meh about Halloween, I sure have had a lot of costumes through the years.
Some have been pretty bad-ass, like my Lord Voldemark costume from 2010.
While some have been pretty lame, like this Really Ugly Betty from 2008.
I generally love anything that involves tons of face paint, like this Shrek outfit from 2007.
And I’ve never said no to anything that involved spandex, as anyone who knew me in 2006 will attest.
I’ve never argued the fact that I think I’m pretty incredible, as this Marky Incredible costume my wife made for me in 2011 will attest.
And when the situation calls for pleather catsuits – KABOOM. There we go. In this case, “X” really did mark the spot.
I once made 10 kids cry at our office Halloween party because of my two-headed orc costume. I know this because I counted.
And of course, there was 2012’s King Fergus, complete with totally inappropriate Fred Perry suede boots.
And still I insist I’m not all that hot about Halloween.
I don’t buy books as much as I used to. But I still love going to bookstores.
Fully Booked on Bonifacio High Street always makes me happy. It isn’t just the books, but the way the whole place celebrates creativity and art in everything – their window displays, their book displays, their walls and their ceilings.
People need to celebrate beautiful things more often. Imelda Marcos may have been controversial, but she was on to something.
“Facials are for fags,” they say. “Only fruitcakes go for diamond peels.”
And so it goes, in this world of swagger and machismo.
Words like luminous, velvet-smooth, sun-kissed are not supposed to be associated with Real Manly Men of the Schwarzenegger mold. Rugged, chiseled, wind-torn – now those are the words socially mandated for use in the tomes of How Real Men Should Be, and a pox be upon the man who has the misfortune to be discovered by his fellows with vitamin-enriched cucumbers nestled delicately on his eyes, and his feet gently marinating in a peppermint-jasmine foot spa.
So what is it, therefore, that makes a Real Man?
“He must subject himself to trials and tortures,” the classical machismophiles may say.“He must willingly subject himself to pain and suffering, and utter not whimpers but rather manly roars, congruent to those of a cow besotted with intestinal gas.”
To that, I will agree, and it is for that reason that I must say – getting my first ever facial and diamond peel was quite possibly the manliest thing I have ever done in all my life.
If in medieval times, men marched proudly into war to face down dark goblins and be gored through by rusted battle-spears, then the modern male equivalent is the dermatologist’s office. But today’s man faces down a different sort of foe; it is blackheads that besiege him, and it is gleaming silver blackhead removers that thirst vilely for his squeals of pain.
I will be honest in saying that the fear I felt as I stepped into Dermstrata’s Greenbelt branch was fathoms deeper than any I had ever felt before; not even a 700-lb load on the Gold’s Gym leg-press had ever jellied my legs in the manner that the dermatologist did. And for all the distinctly manly pains I have gone through in my life – circumcision, a muscle-tear, an attack of gout brought on by a stray over-indulgence in an incredibly manly plate of roast pork belly – nothing compares to the poking and prodding that my deceptively-harmless facial care specialist submitted me to.
“Zarah,” I remember moaning softly to my girlfriend, as glistening steel implements dug, scraped, and squeezed viciously at my ruggedly handsome face that some have said reminds them of a young Marlon Brando from a certain angle and distance*, “I think I’m going to cry.”
And it was true. Every quick jab, poke, thrust at my nose felt like a broadsword through my intestines. Over the course of the hour-long session, I truly, sincerely wanted to curl into a fetal ball and weep myself silently to sleep. As lasers screeched over my ravaged countenance, I felt instead like the White House being blasted by an extra-planetary laser in the movie Independence Day. As the finely-ground diamond peel Blast-O-Master 3000 whirred dangerously over my studly cheeks, visions of slaughterhouse accidents danced manically before my tear-bleared eyes.
“Sir, would you like to see your extracted blackheads?” the attendant murmured.
“By Odin, god of all Manly Men and official sponsor of Mr. Olympia 2015, yes!” I roared, eager to see the carnage and entrails I was sure had been spilled over the course of the last hour.
Before me was a saucer lined artfully with tissue paper. “Are those sesame seeds?” my mind wondered disbelievingly, staring at its contents.
“Your blackheads, sir,” the attendant whispered, seemingly reading my thoughts. “They’re much larger below than what you see on the surface. Like icebergs.”
“Icebergs,” I parroted back numbly. I literally melted back into a rubbery heap on the trolley. My stomach was churning. I had imagined blackheads to be diminutive little buds, perhaps suggestive of the short-shorn hair you find on your razor after your morning shave. I had not anticipated that they would be of such beastly proportions, roughly the size of sesame seeds, a sickly yellow-green in color, and ever-so-slightly crusty.
“Icebergs,” I whimpered one more time. “Like the ones that sank the Titanic! And killed Leonardo DiCaprio!”
I was catatonic. Nauseated. In shock.
But forty-eight hours later, I find myself radiating like a freshly-bloomed Ecuadorian rose. My skin feels silky-soft, buttercream-smooth. On my nose, where I used to have distressing little black dots, there is now only a pinkish-white luminescence. I feel dashing, debonaire, handsome even.
I realize now, that like a sword that must be forged in the hottest of fires and folded in on itself over and over again to achieve its most glorious, finely-honed potential, so too must a man subject himself to the scourges and suffering of a regular facial to reach the mythical pinnacle of studliness. It’s an experience that challenges a man to question his capacity for courage, his tolerance for pain, his ability to soar above the sensation of the now.
People say I seem much kinder these days, more gentle and refined. An air of serenity seems to waft discreetly from my pores, and I glow with the radiance of a summer sun. “Have you found God?” they ask, “or perhaps your higher calling?”
“No,” I say, a beatific grin dancing on the edges of my lips. “I had a facial.”
* – When seen from behind at a distance of 2-kilometers on a slightly overcast day.
So my Zee and I got invited to be part of a tiny little segment on “Kapuso Mo, Jessica Soho,” which we immediately said yes to.
Not being much of TV nuts, we assumed not a lot of people watched it.
Turns out it’s consistently in the Top 10 of TV programs nationwide. Eep. But we did it, with the slant of “People who found love on Twitter.”
So here’s a bootleg video of mine & Zee’s 1-min of fame on Jessica Soho. Some production notes:
(1) It is not true the camera adds 10-lbs. It adds 40. FYI, I have abs in real life. 9 of them.
(2) They cut a lot of our cute chroma shots, i.e. kilitian, subuan ng ice cream, habulan sa bukid, etc.
(3) The pillow in front of my tummy was strategic – I want to be seen as a sex symbol on TV.
(4) Zee’s cheekbones are KILLER on TV.
Once I upon a time, I like to think I was a cool, suave, sophisticatedly macho piece of man-meat, all swagger and fireworks and baby oil.
That was until I met my Zee. She transformed me. I’d like to think it’s for the better, but I will say this: All of my machismo points have gone flying out the window like a plate of rancid sodium-free margarine. Instead, I’ve transformed into a mushy puddle of googly-wah.
But you know what? I don’t mind. She melts me, and I adore her. More than I’ve ever adored anyone in my life.
She makes me so happy. I have a tendency to take myself (and life) too seriously, and being with her helps me see the joy in simple things. We’re like two silly little kids when we’re together; even after five months things are still so fresh and new and magical.
Our weekend adventures are legendary, like this one time we tried to cook crabs we’d bought at Salcedo Market…
It’s hard to enumerate the things I like best about her. There are too many.
And so I got to thinking – I wish we’d known each other back in the Friendster days. I wish we could have left each other testimonials. I don’t know what she would have said about me back then (“ZOMGZ I loooove your undercut!! Looks AMAZING with your Hawaiian shirt!”), but here’s what I would say to her after five magical, wonderful months with her.
My Zee is the bestest girlfriend in the world. She’s gorgeous, funny, sweet, thoughtful, and her tummy makes the nicest fluffiest pillow and she gives the bestest hugs. But more than that, she inspires me to be a better man. Her strength, courage, and resilience were the first things I knew about her, and remind me that I need to be all these things for her too.
She takes the best care of the people that she treasures, with no pain, with no limits. She cooks the best lechon paksiw, cheese omelettes, bacon, and garlic rice (even though her crepes need a bit more work), and gives the nicest backrubs I’ve ever known. Seeing her smile is enough to turn around all the heartache of a crappy day, and hearing her laugh reminds me that there is still so much beauty in the world to live for. I could gaze into her eyes forever.
And she never asks for anything in return – for someone who gives so much of herself, she is so unselfish in what she wants back. This teaches me to be unselfish too, to give all that I have to give, because that’s what you do when you love someone.
She makes me believe in myself. She makes me hope. She makes me believe in forever.
She only knows one way to love – completely, sincerely, and unconditionally. And I hope she knows that I love her the same way too.
I love you, my peanut. Happy 5th monthsary.
It’s no secret that I grew up wanting to be a professional wrestler.
The lights. The chants of the crowd. The glory. The spandex. The baby oil.
Oh, the wonders of being a play-for-pay grappler.
The Mexican luchador, a practitioner of the ancient high-flying wrestling style of lucha libre (literally, the “free fight”), holds his mask as most sacred among all his possessions. It represents honor, purity, heritage, and strength – things that MDJ Superstar has long stood for in Philippine society.
Such is the level of reverence held for their masks, that literally the greatest shame for a luchador is to be unmasked in public. Such legends of the sport as El Hijo Del Santo, Dos Caras, Mil Mascaras, and Rey Misterio, Jr. have been known to shower in their masks, and even be buried in their masks.
Heck, I once even bought myself a plastic championship belt, just so I would know the feeling of walking into a room with a sparkling gold plate slung over my pulsing deltoids.
But I digress.
This latest present, sent to me all the way from the South American chapter of the International MDJ Superstar Fan Club of the World, takes the cake. It’s now my new favourite fashion accessory.
I have now arrived at my new alternative career: Mexican luchador.
Let the world beware, for El Grande Pututoy has now arrived.
Today, I put on a mask. I stop being a man. And start being a legend.
I have never been one to do the safe, conventional thing.
People have questioned why I’ve done what I’ve done both in my career and in my personal life. They aren’t usually the sensible choices, I will admit. Generally, they’ve been driven by no small degree of naivete and idealism.
That’s one thing I learned from my father – one must never be scared to chase down one’s dream.
This commencement address by Steve Jobs is something I loaded on my iPod many many years ago. I listen to it when I feel lost, when I feel purposeless, when I feel like I’m drifting away from living a meaningful life.
“Stay Hungry, Stay Foolish” is not a message a lot of people can relate to.
It’s not a message of stability and predictability. It’s a message that embraces life as its most raw, one that places faith in the universe to connect the dots for you as you chase down your dreams.
I hope this is something you’ve heard before.
Stay hungry, stay foolish. As I take the next big steps in my life, this is something I will always hold true in my heart.
This Christmas, we De Joya males, as strapping, cavalier, and hunky as we are – true blueprints for the prototypical Manly Man – discovered a gentlemanly new way to settle our disputes.
Four Nerf N-Strike Maverick pistols. One for the each of us. Each one a deadly hunk of finely-tooled canary-yellow plastic primed and ready to unleash a vicious onslaught of foam-rubber upon unsuspecting passers-by.
These Nerf guns are devastating pieces of high-tech space-age technology made available only to the finest specimens of Manly Men. Only the most physically-gifted can bear them; only those with the true soul of hunter may wield their awesome destructive might.
And how do we, the Manly De Joya Men, apply such terrifying armaments of devastating firepower?
Watch and learn.
This video also proves there is no such thing as the law of averages. Michael won four straight times!
In the words of The Sicilian from The Princess Bride: “Inconceivable!”
Not to mention irritating…