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The biannual shearing of the locks at Propaganda. Growth must be controlled before it achieves infinite density.

I was so pleased at the result, I took a picture of myself wearing my new glasses. Remember that horror movie Jacob’s Ladder? Isn’t this what Tim Robbins saw?

Shot my friends wearing the glasses.

Here is Leo’s last photo before he got his Manchu haircut. He’s always wanted a hairstyle out of a King Hu kung fu epic.

Then I started accosting people and asking them to pose with the glasses. You’d be surprised at how many random strangers respond to, “Hi, could you put on these glasses for a photograph?” There was a Brazilian-Japanese model waiting to get a haircut and he seemed happy to comply with our strange request. He said his name was Daniel Kenji Matsunaga. Soon to appear in ads.

Check out this week’s Newsweek, appearing on stands today. I have an article on Kinatay and our national insecurity.

6pm. Found a bag made out of vinyl tablecloth. I am in my Check Period. Still black, but checkered.

8pm. Saw Raya Martin’s Independencia at the French Film Festival at Shangri-La Mall. So many people turned up to see it, the organizers had to schedule a second screening immediately after the 8pm show or there’d be a moviegoer riot. For an experimental film! Will wonders never cease.

Raya and his stars.

Independencia is in beautiful black-and-white; I think they could remove the dialogue altogether. When it rains in the forest I keep thinking, “That’s why I never go camping.”

Tried in vain to convince Martin from the French Embassy to show the 35mm print of The 400 Blows instead of the DVD. He says the print doesn’t have subtitles. But everyone’s already seen The 400 Blows from the Quiapo Cinematheque, I said, we already know what happens.

The 400 Blows will be screened on Sunday at 5.30pm. Go if you’ve never seen it. And go early because there’s a long queue.

10pm. Went to Joel Torre the King of Manok’s dinner for the American filmmaker John Sayles (Lone Star, Eight Men Out, The Return of the Secaucus Seven). Sayles is in town to cast actors and scout locations for a movie on the Philippine-American War that he will shoot in Bohol in January. This is not his first time in the Philippines, he has lots of Pinoy friends and co-workers. He’s written a 900-page novel about the Philippine-American War that will be published next year. Yay, he agreed to show us an excerpt for Manila Envelope 4. Yay, material for next week’s column.

Krip Yuson wants everyone to know he hates the fucking Lakers. All I know about basketball is that their shorts are too long but LeBron is cute.

Photo: Jessica Zebra, acrylic paint and papier-mache, by Jay Lozada and me

Hanging out with my friend E is a walking demonstration of the difference between Fame and Semi-fame. I am semi-, okay, quarter-famous among people who read contemporary Filipino authors. E is extremely famous among people who listen to contemporary Filipino music. Fact: More people listen to music than read books. Fact: E’s old band was hysterically popular and they had a concert last month.

At my, uh, level, I get asked for an autograph or to have someone’s picture taken with me a couple of times a week. Sometimes I get chatted up, most times people just gawk while pretending not to gawk, either because it’s not cool or I might cut their heads off. E gets stared at openly, and by a wider demographic. If big, beefy guys looked at me the way they look at him, I’d call the police. While walking he gets stopped and asked to pose for pictures every 100 meters. Every waiter in the restaurant we ate in had their photo taken with him.

I think the fame level of E’s current band suits him better: you can actually talk to him now. The whole time I worked with the ‘heads he only spoke in monosyllables. That’s the way to torment me: converse in monosyllables.

If you’ve never been famous, you may have a dream view of fame. Fame carries lots of perks. You acquire certain advantages, whether you deserve them or not. Fame is a kind of artificial beauty: when famous people walk into a restaurant, conversations pause and chewing of food is suspended. It’s just like what happens when beautiful people walk into a place, except that the famous can look like trolls. Who wouldn’t want the illusion of beauty?

Being famous sounds like the cat’s pajamas. Well I’ve tried making my cats wear pajamas, and they loathe it. It’s pretty when you’re looking at it from the outside, but when you’re in there you might feel like an idiot. You suspect that you’re constantly being watched and judged, and you would be right. My theory is that vacuous people handle fame so much better because they don’t have a self to override.

But I’m talking from the mezzanine and the view from the penthouse is probably different.

Photo: I Lego NY by Christoph Newman in the Abstract City blog.

So I’m in a taxi on a sweltering Tuesday afternoon, crawling through the traffic on McKinley Road, and we stop at a red light. The driver opens the glove compartment and takes out a sheaf of papers. I don’t mean to look but I can read the print clearly over his shoulder. I wish I hadn’t looked because it’s a document issued by a Regional Trial Court. A warrant of arrest.

For Murder.

I straighten up in my seat. This is more interesting information than I’m used to reading in a taxi on a Tuesday afternoon. Also more disturbing information than one hopes to hear in a moving vehicle, even if it’s caught in traffic. Unless that’s the driver’s typing exam, someone has been killed, and the driver may have had something to do with it.

No, I’m not getting out of this cab, what am I, nuts? It’s hot, the traffic’s awful, try getting a cab on this street at this hour…

Emotional Weather Report, today in the Star.

I Lego NY by Christoph Niemann in his Abstract City blog in the NYT

Most times when I feel the flu coming on I ignore the symptoms in the hope that they will go away (while I hydrate and take megadoses of vitamins). Sometimes it works, this week it didn’t. The scratchy feeling in my throat last Friday was gradually followed by congestion, headache, and finally, a fever that knocked me flat. I slept for most of Monday and Tuesday, surrounded by cats (who consider 21 hours of sleep a day perfectly normal and were happy that I’d come to my senses), waking up only when I heard myself talking in my sleep. Maybe I should record my sleep-talking, but I suspect it will be boring.

While I was semi-delirious, Carlo texted that his aunt’s German Shepherd bit off his (Carlo’s) butt cheek, taking away 85 percent of his remaining body fat and making it difficult for him to sit down. The dog has had his shots, so Carlo is probably not going to shun baths or start baying at the moon, but he is being kept under observation (the dog, not Carlo).

This is not the first time that dog has bitten people. In the US he would’ve been put to sleep. Poor doggies. Many of them probably were hostile and violent, but some might just have been over-excited fashion critics. I know of a Japanese Spitz who loathed black pants, which was unfortunate because his human’s daughter wore nothing else (with tops).

Noel consoled Carlo on his mauling by quoting Diana Vreeland: A woman is beautiful by her scars. Or made beautiful by her scars. That’s the general idea, you can look up the exact words.

“A scar in the butt shows the strength of my character,” Carlo said.

“Yes, if you walk around with one butt cheek (or ex-butt cheek) exposed,” I pointed out. Perhaps this canine attack is the universe’s critique of Carlo’s social life—which, ironically, can only help his social life (“Would you like to see my scar?”). In any case Carlo’s condition makes my own seem almost pleasant by comparison, and a few days in bed watching Fawlty Towers and Lubitsch is nothing to complain about.

 

How to get the wind-in-your-hair effect

1. Slather anti-frizz or oil on hair to make waves stand out.
2. Aim three electric fans at hair.
3. Snap photo before subject gets pneumonia in cold studio.

In the photo, Marlon calculates wind shear while Carlo reaffirms his decision to shave his head.

Photography by Ricky Villabona. Hair and make-up styling by Marlon Rivera. Original art direction of hair by Noel Orosa. Vintage cat’s eye glasses from Nella Sarabia’s collection, UP Shopping Center. Hair, giant forehead, lopsided expression: Mine.

Meanwhile, the ruminations of He Who Is Handsome.