Zombiosis and How I know Im Gay #2

A couple of days ago, sidekick and I went to visit our friend K at his pad in QC. He's lives alone, doesn't own a TV but he does have a 24" Mac where movies look fab. He showed us his nifty purchase of a bootleg DVD of Final Destination 5 (or was that 4) in 3D, complete with 3D glasses. I got to watch graphic decapitation scenes in 3D and boy was it laugh-out-loud gross.

That's what I do -- if I watch something extremely violent and graphic, like the slow mutilation of a human toe with the help of pliers (a scene from the movie, "Hostel") I laugh really hard. I refuse to believe that I do it out of sheer joy but as a way of coping. My high school English teacher said that it was inconsistency and novelty that made something funny and amusing. Like a friend who slips in a puddle is funny because it was inconsistent from his normal walking. And decapitation by flying car wheel is pretty novel, eliciting a laugh reflex from me. Laughter is better than terror, definitely.

You'll be America's Next Top Model. After I eat your brains

Then we watched 28 Weeks Later. It was dope and violent too. Zombies that can run really fast is fucking scary, man. My inner fag was screaming its way out in between bouts of laughter and curses. Oh wow it becomes even worse in the moviehouse.

***

How I know I'm Gay #2:

I tried to sketch a creepy zombie.

 

My zombie turned out looking like Tyra Banks complete with the big forehead; I had to give her a widow's peak so it didn't look too much like her. I was like, "What the hell is Tyra doing on my zombie sketch?!" When you try to sketch a zombie and it turns out looking like Tyra, you know you're a fag.

Happy Birthday Dad!

Happy Birthday, Dad! I hope you're having a blast in Heaven. May sabong ata si San Pedro jan.

Magneto and some little girl I forgot. Luna, I think. It's a 10-year old drawing.

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:
http://www.time.com/time/health/article/0,8599,1882127,00.html
http://www.wired.com/wiredscience/2009/02/doodlerecall/

Thanks,

Johnny Cursive
Resident Smart Ass
of a Corporate Office

 I am NOT going down without a fight.

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.

Johnny is Davao Rock God

But not until March. Also, I’m still waiting for promos to get the cheapest ticket rates I can get. Where the fuck are the promos when I need em?

That’s because I’m a non-bisaya speaking half-Davaoeňo with approximately 50 first cousins that I haven’t met yet. Last time I visited I got showered with gifts and fed with the best mead and meat. My aunts and uncles competed with one another with the food they served in their respective houses. Every night was a feast. Relatives competed for the attention. My cousins took me out at night to crowded bars where my crotch area was constantly in contact with something or someone. My cousins speak the most conyo-sounding bisaya I’ve ever heard. The morning half hour travel towards any direction brought me to the beach or the mountains. And there were 90-peso buffets everywhere.

I always wondered what my cousins in Davao would be like, because I always wondered why I never had anything in common with my cousins in Luzon. When I met 2 of my cousins and learned that they pretended to murder each other with a knife for the sake of scaring the poor housemaids, I felt profoundly at home.

What I should never ever forget is the day I shook hands and shared a few drinks with one of the infamous Davao City Hitmen. DDS or Davao Death Squad, they're called. 3 years ago my late father introduced me to the hitman and told me how many he's killed. DDS is no urban myth. Shaking hands with a cold-blooded Davao killer could have been cool in theory but that might have been too dark for my taste. I'm not prejudiced, but I think I'll allow myself make an exception sometimes.

Mandaya Woman from Davao Oriental. Drawn in Manila on a good day last year. Still havent drawn the right foot until now. I still can't. I wonder what that says about me.

Johnny keeps Straight People in his Closet

Being out to my best friends who happen to be a straight couple has a completely different set of dynamics on its own. For closeted guys, it’s usually either you’re completely closeted from your straight friends or you’ve come out and then the friendship isn’t the same anymore. Sometimes a faerie will be lucky and he will have straight friends who remain loyal post-outing.

I love Adren. He’s my straight guy friend and he loves me back in a brusque brotherly fashion while his girlfriend Martha is my straight girl best friend who treats me like the sister she never had. Ironically, with his tisoy features, body-consciousness and luxurious lashes he'd look better as the gay guy among us. Even after I’ve come out to Adren, we still share the same interest with girls although his fondness for females is sexual while mine is (very) distant outside-looking-in and clinically objective. He still enjoys sharing his beerhouse anecdotes like he was sharing it to a frat brother, as he always did, but to me it sounds like the Na’vi explaining their mating rituals. On a good day I could make it sound like fax tone.

Nightcrawler snogs Cerise. Drawn on a random day ages ago.

I find it extremely thoughtful that he made the effort to go back to our old Philosophy lessons on Foucault’s “History of Sexuality” with its articles on sexual fluidity to convince me that my gayness is but an anomalous falling from grace.  I could almost blog about his personal discourse on the topic but I refuse to (meaning: I can’t). He is as intelligent as he is stubborn. One fine day when I felt especially annoyed, I brought up the topic of the fluidity of sexuality and declared how he might factually enjoy sucking cock in 2010. That ended his lecture.

Adren is, like friends should be, brutally honest. And I especially value this honesty because in my situation it is not easy to have a very close straight guy friend who will give you his truth. What could be very true, and very sad, is one thing that he told me a couple of weeks ago over a bucket of beer: “…but we’re never going to be 100% O.K. with the idea that you’re gay.” Inside my signature tipsy smirk was my voice getting caught in my throat. It is painfully true. That’s why he always invites me to see dancing naked Na’vi boobies in hopes of converting me. Or why he’d bring up the topic of how great it might be to make tiny baby Johnny Cursives. Or get very academic and appeal to my geekier side with Foucaultian philosophy. But the beer bottle I share with them is half full, not half-empty. Apparently it also never gets empty. They are still my friends, and the dynamics of a closeted gay guy being best friends with a straight couple is their struggle as much as it is mine. I didn’t come out of the closet to them; I’ve invited them over to mine. And it’s a hot, cramped closet with the smell of moth balls. It’s also very pink. Hot pink.

Johnny Cursive and Sidekick catch the Colds

My sidekick and yours truly caught the Colds recently.  Maybe it's somatic lovesickness? Nah. I'd blame it on stress and December weather. We should both stop the smoking and increase the hours of sleep. I'm already getting 8 hours and apparently it's not enough. Must increase vitamin intake -- C, B-vitamins and maybe a bit more vitamin J. We need kisspirin and yakapsul. And increase the time spent together to huddle-cuddle for warmth. Our time spent together is at a healthy level but I seem to can't get enough. Mush much.
   

Papa Cyclops braves the snowstorm. Drawn in December 2000

The Gambit Effect

With art, I got 3 masters: Fernando Amorsolo (a distant lolo), Stan Lee and Nelo from “The Dog of Flanders” cartoon drama series (ya know, that kid who had a dog named Patrash. That little boy drew really well).

Stan Lee was the main man. His cross-hatching and over-all ink work from the 90’s was perfection. I have fallen in love with his Marvel Comics creations and X-Men in particular; they have influenced me so much and opened the doors of art and literature for me (yes, comic books count as literature). Stan Lee had so much power over me when I was still a twink. But he probably did not have so much influence over me as much as Gambit the X-Man did.

Gambit, ink on paper. Drawn on a horny day in 1998, 2nd year hischool.

Gambit. Now that man’s hot. Everything he touches ends up in hot explosion. His French accent coupled with his tousled hair and scruffy devil-may-care rockstar nonchalance was too much for a growing faerie like my pubescent old self.  I could’ve imagined the musk emanating from his hot body hidden under that worn-out trench coat like the undulating heat of sand dunes on a desert afternoon. Everything just lent to a mystery and je ne sais quoi so successful on me that I tried to emulate it during my (very few) visits to Bed. Most visits I was alone. I would come in a turned up hoodie, stay on a corner and drink my beer as I observe the crowd and absorb the music. Then maybe flash a Gambit smirk. Or a Gambit wink. Then wait to be picked up like a bitch.

It would be so convenient to blame my sexual orientation on a fictional character, but sometimes I could be very much convinced that Gambit gave me the purple faerie wings.

That bastard. That sexy, sexy bastard. 

Johnny Cursive can't drive

I struck a deal with my mom that I will learn how to drive this year. There  are only 3 weeks left of this year and all I know is how to (nervously) start a car. I’m a 25-year old guy who can’t drive.

So far I’m surviving without the skill. I try to convince myself sometimes that driving is overrated. The truth is, I’m scared. I’ve had many stitches and broken bones from all sorts of mishaps. When I was 6, I was sitting on the gutters beside my playmate and his leg stopped a nearby van from running over mine.

So it’s MRT, taxi, and the jeepney for me. To get to work, I ride the cab. If it’s that time of the day where there are no available cabs passing by my area, I take a jeepney going to Makati Ave’s Pacific Star and that’s where I ride a cab. If I still can’t get the cab, I take the Ayala loop jeepney.

 

Ayala Loop Jeepney, ink & pencil on paper; drawing shipped to Florida

Commuting is a unique exercise. I’d like to believe that it boosts one’s immune system via cardio amidst all the free-radical exposure.  My gym membership cannot replicate that.

Commuting gave me interesting experiences, such as frotteurism in the MRT rush hour. Whether it’s some stranger’s cock on my thigh or a boob pressing on my shoulder blade, the inappropriate contact is just not OK. And don’t even get me started on the gropers.

Come to think of it, yeah I think I’d like to start learning how to drive in 2010.

Johnny Cursive is a faerie

Drawn a few months back on a gloomy day. Ink on paper, colored by Photoshop