Defending the Doodlers

Doodling during meetings is one of my quirks. I think I may have been gently reprimanded about it by email today. My boss forwarded us an article entitled, "5 Biggest Mistakes You're Making at Work"

This was number 5:
Office oops: You doodle during meetings.
Overcome it: Scrolling through your BlackBerry or doodling during the proceedings is a no-no, says Liz Bywater, Ph.D., a career consultant in Yardley, Pennsylvania. Indulging in these sorts of distractions not only disconnects you from the issue at hand, it tells others you don’t care. To prevent meetings from becoming snoozy, spend at least a few minutes researching the topics on the agenda beforehand. By showing up prepared, you’ll be driven to contribute and less susceptible to distractions."

And then he asked me what I thought about #5.

I had to defend myself:

Hi Boss,

I'm not sure if I can let go of that yet but maybe I'll try to replace it with something less distracting to others? =)

I've been doodling in class since kinder until college; I'm not trying to defend my quirks but it helps stimulate my mind and this is where I got all the ideas that our business is now enjoying, from the (A) to (B) and the (C) that continually saves us $3,000 a month. I read in college that this is common among artists, and I accept that not everyone can understand or approve of it. I'll try to reduce it but I can't promise to eliminate it =)

Here boss, check this out:,8599,1882127,00.html


Johnny Cursive
Resident Smart Ass
of a Corporate Office

 I am NOT going down without a fight.

Currently on my Bedside Table

Is Joe Abercrombie’s “The First Law” trilogy. I have a soft spot for relatable and accessible fantasy books for adults. I’m totally hooked! Reading good books like this totally beats the crap out of DVD marathons.

I wonder if there's a fantasy book of great quality where the protagonist likes boys too. Now THAT is what my fantasy book should be.

Lavatory Literature

One ungodly hour last week, my big brother, the biggest man in the house, was running around the house, short of breath and panicking. He couldn’t find the latest newspaper and he’s in dire need of using the toilet already. He needed to poop but couldn’t because he didn’t have anything to read. It was a painful situation; a somatic dilemma of sorts.

It runs in the family. Say one thing about Johnny Cursive, say that he can’t do the number 2 without having something to read.

I’d read the papers and magazine back-issues while seated. Running out of material, I’d grab the nearest shampoo bottle and read through how it reduces hair damage by up to 50 percent. I would hmmm, nod and be impressed, even if it’s trivial and I get a buzz cut every 2 weeks. Running out of shampoo bottles, I’d grab the toothpaste and then the remaining toiletries. That is how I have learned that the average facial wash has the exact same components as the regular feminine wash. I ran out of facial cleanser one time. Heedless to say, the PH balance of the feminine wash invigorated the flora of my face. I felt rather blooming that day.

I’ve been reading Jessica Zafra as my lavatory literature. I’ve just finished reading Twisted 8 ½. I wasn’t that impressed, not of the writing but of the subject. The book is a compilation of her tech product reviews, and I reckon those were from a couple of years ago. With the speed that technology becomes obsolete, the book felt like reading about the next garage sale. That's OK though, because it still falls under good lavatory literature -- light, amusing and just about cathartic.

My current Lavatory Literature:

From Wikipedia:

Strauss stumbles across the community while working on an article[1], intrigued by the subculture, he starts participating in the online discussion groups, mainly out of his own frustration with his romantic life. As he becomes more and more involved in the Seduction Community, Strauss attends a "Bootcamp" conducted by Mystery, one of the most influential and respected members of the community. The bootcamp consists of Strauss and other participants approaching women and then Mystery and his counterpart Sin giving them corrective advice on their behaviors, body language, and what to say after viewing the participants approach women.

The book then narrates the journey of how Strauss goes through the various stages of becoming a Pickup artist, Description about the various members of the community and how Strauss befriends many of the members, particularly Mystery. He also narrates his success with women,the spreading of the seduction community itself and his life at "Project Hollywood", a high end mansion and a lifestyle plan shared by Strauss, Mystery, Papa, Tyler Durden, Herbal, and other members of the Seduction community. And how rivalries and animosity between various members of the community lead to "Project Hollywood's" collapse.

This book is highly entertaining. I don't think this is 100% applicable for faeries, but it doesn't matter because faeries get it easier than straight men by default.

"The Game" is just like a good laxative.  

The Ex, K's Reprise, and Johnny's Whoremongering

I hung out with my sidekick and my ex a couple of weeks ago and talked over gelato and coffee. We had fun, in general. I wore a plain navy blue shirt and navy blue baseball cap that day. Thank heavens I left my cap in sidekick’s car because upon meeting my ex, he was wearing a similar plain navy blue shirt and matching navy blue baseball cap. On top of the matching outfits, there was a lot of catching up and with generous exchanges of hearty chuckles. To have had his current boyfriend accidentally wear the exact same shirt and cap as his ex, my sidekick was graceful under the circumstances. He got a little jealous, but that’s normal I guess.

My ex is now one of my closest buddies. Ours was the case of people being exponentially better as friends. We’ve been better friends and much better individuals after we broke up. We’re laughing now, so that’s good. The guy couldn’t make me laugh when we were together. He tried harder, and that made me angrier. That irony, at least, was funny.


My good friend K has just had his 2nd isang linggong pag-ibig (link: the first). This time, it was with a very good-looking 20-something year-old professor-- Handsome, statuesque, smart and articulate. Prof and K got my blessing right away. However, Prof was clingier than pizza grease. A couple of weeks ago I got an SMS from K:

“Ninang, kami na ni Prof. Pero di pa ako nag-iiloveyou.”
“How the hell was that possible? Isn’t that one of the deal requirements?”
“Eh ganun eh.”

Next thing I know, Prof was telling me about K breaking up with him, and how it has shattered his heart into a million pieces that slipped through his fingers like the sands of time. A tad dramatic, but it's V-day season so it's excusable.

Poor K got traumatized by the first one so obviously he was being cautious. I gotta admit though, Prof had a talent for smothering. Artists like myself and K don’t take into getting fettered too well. That, and apparently Prof also doesn’t drink. But that’s more of my issue than it is K’s. I refuse to understand it. Being without beer or tequila is preposterous.


I feel compelled to play cupid or pimp or a mixture of the two plus a dash of whoremonger.

K is a consummate visual artist and illustrator with an excellent portfolio. He’s smart, articulate and quick to laugh. My ninang is a pleasure to have around. He looks good too, of course—a rugged and mysterious moreno flavor who can wield a Gambit je ne sais quois (link: Gambit Effect). He’s from QC. He is turned off by those who express their love after less than a week.

Ex is also an artist. This one’s from Makati CBD. He’s a singer-songwriter (we were in a band together) with a day job he loves and has had a few gigs in film, commercials and print ads. So that means he’s good-looking—a buff mestizo flavor. He’s smart and writes well (he used to write some of my essays for college that got me an A). He texted me last night and asked me to find him a good date who’s just as special as my sidekick. I told him that’d be a major challenge. He's also not much into quick fallers.

I would pimp Mr. Prof too, but he’s still nursing a heart that's shattered into a million pieces slipping through his fingers like the sands of time. I reckon it's gonna take him a while to get that fixed.

Ex and K have not met yet, and that would be interesting if they did. I am worried that those two artists could be the formula for gunpowder so I don’t completely recommend it. It could be fabulous pyrolympics material, or the imploding kind that disintegrates your fingers. Either way, I’m hoping to be able to help find them their respective inspirations at the very least.

Johnny's Favorite Angle

Is the profile. Otherwise known as the person's side view.

One of my pencil sketches from several weeks ago. Nope, this isn't my sidekick. He'd kill me if I drew him and posted it here.

I am enamored by profile angles especially my sidekick's. It is what I see when I look at him from the passenger seat (link: can't drive, sorry) right before he looks back with a smile. It's what I see when I glance at him when we're watching a film. I trace the air around it with my fingers while he sleeps.

It tells me he's near, he's right beside me, and we're headed towards the same direction.

I apologize for the mush. I hate eliciting non-fellatio related gag reflexes.

Awkward Boners

The messenger bag is the ultimate gift to manhood. It has saved me countless times from awkward boners from college until now. Commuting by jeepney or tricycle meant sitting on a major vibrator and imagining a naked Madame Auring did not always soften my stiffy. It also meant I couldn't readjust my bratwurst with other passengers around. During these dire circumstances, the messanger bag has always been my security blanket. It's always covered the tent that my rod would spontaneously pitch. Thank heavens for it.

 John Legend clearly didn't get the memo that dry humping & linen pants on stage don't match. He gets my respect though. Major creds for my homie!

I forgive Jean Claude Van Dame's atrocious acid wash jeans.

Not sure if college wrestling allows messenger bags in the ring though.

And there's a whole lotta bevy of boners here.Most guys have not yet discovered the main purpose of the messenger bag. I can't believe it's still thought of as just a sack to store and carry stuff.

Homme Fatale: The Gay Emosogynist (Part 2)

The past couple of years, I had a pattern of dating boys for several weeks without having sex with them. My friend K thinks it is an abomination. Faeries have sex for sustenance and it’s a known fact. However, I may have unconsciouly found that hearts may have been more appetizing than schubligs.

One night stands are healthier by comparison (so long as you only do safe, of course). If nobody hears from anyone after the debauchery, the message is clear. The game of the efficiently raptorial womanizer (and its parallel--the average horny faerie) ends after the one nighter. However, the emosogynist, straight or otherwise, has a completely different set of rules. Compared to regular predators, emosogynists have evolved advanced culinary tastes and learned how to marinate, season their prey in cinammon and cook them over slow fire.

I met a model a couple of years back. After downing some buckets of beer, we strolled along baywalk, stole a few kisses and talked until morning. The next time we saw each other, he brought me siomai. Then packed lunch. Then a pink teddy. Then he brought me to his school to meet his teachers. It only took another couple of weeks before he introduced me to his family as one of his "best friends". We went out, watched movies, the whole nine yards. Well, call it 8 yards because I never slept with the dude. One day I decided he wasn’t for me. Clearly it felt good to be liked but it got confusing when I couldn't like the person back no matter how hard I tried or how everyone else seems to like the person but me.

I met a sweet fresh grad a few weeks after. The boy chose to accept a job offer an hour and a half away from his work so we could see each other more often. But I was gone after a month. A very similar story happened with an IT guy. I just stopped answering his texts and phone calls. Obviously he ended up bewildered. Honestly, I may have been just as baffled. Similar story with… you get the point. Repetition was necessary before I could recognize any pattern.

I wasn’t always just dating boys without sex. A boy has got to eat. Hot skinhead boy who picked me up twice (from an earlier blog entry) observed loudly that I was the dating kind. His first sentence was, “tara sa Eurotel” to which I promptly replied, “wag muna.” I could be an obnoxious kaltok-deserving Maria Clara if I wanted to. So we dated for an hour and headed out to Eurotel anyway. I was the dating kind, not deliberately sleazy, but not deliberately insipid either. A little more fatal.

Irina Aleksander writes about the L’Homme Fatale in an article in The New York Observer and describes the emosogynist as:

…Often the creative type, he projects a deceptive vulnerability, while maintaining an appealing confidence. He’s usually not the best-looking guy in the room, but he is the smartest; he turns these traits to his advantage, playing up the contrast with the typical hot guy or womanizer (physical inferiority, emotional evolvement). His courtship begins with a rushed sense of intimacy and, yet, a disarming lack of forward physical advances; a first date might involve a game of Scrabble or perhaps a cup of tea; his target usually leaves wondering if in fact it was a date at all. And yet the story always has the same ending—he grows distant, stops calling and eventually disappears with little explanation, if any.

The emosogynist is not necessarily aware of the emotional havoc he can wreak. It is this lack of awareness of his effect highlights the damage even more. And this lack of awareness extends to the emosogynist's incognizance of what he wants. In my case, I was not sure what I wanted; getting someone to fall for me was one way I could find out if I could reciprocate it to that person. It was more convenient, less painful and utterly selfish. The common adage is “don’t hate the player, hate the game.” That ditz Celine Lopez quips that you can hate the player and not the game. What is all this hating going to accomplish, anyhoo hullabahoo? The L’Homme Fatale is not even necessarily aware of his part in the game; or if he’s aware of any game at all, for that matter.

 Irina’s article goes full circle and takes us to a more sympathetic view of the emosogynist:

“The Homme Fatale is a different, possibly more modern condition than a sociopath—he is not as aware of his actions. My understanding is that sociopaths are more clever and conniving. Maybe this is my personal bias, but I think the Homme Fatale is a slightly more sympathetic character,” said James. “The empathy is there, but people who do the most harm are people who don’t know what they want, and Hommes Fatales don’t know what they want.”

And unlike a sociopath, James described feeling a genuine sense of remorse. He’s been trying to change.

“I don’t think you can ever really shed it completely, but as with any sort of psychological problem, it can be made better,” said James. “The first step to reforming one’s actions is to become aware of the pattern you’ve laid out.”

There is the possibility that there are many closeted gay guys that go emosogynist on women because they cannot truly conquer the cunt. Frankly, emosogyny may simply be about men giving women a taste of their own medicine and faeries got into the mix somehow. Whether the emosogynist is straight or gay has become highly immaterial; the affliction touches beyond the sexual and dangerously pokes at the fundamentals of infatuation, emotional connection and love.