Monthly Archives: July 2007
I remember quite clearly the first time I saw Christian Vasquez
. It was at the defunct Latino bar at the corner of Orosa and Remedios Streets in Malate District, the de facto
home of the queer population in Manila. Christian Vasquez was then starting out in modeling – tall, young, mestizo and fresh. He was always in the company of this biggety designer [Paul C], who, when drunk with tequila and attention, always boasted that he was the first one who got into Christian’s pants. Much to the envy of the other patronizing guests at the time. Of course, Christian went on to become the toast of the modeling world, then tv commercials, before he leaped towards tv soaps, movies and theater [as one of the jockeyed cast of Penis Talks, a Vagina Monologues-male clone]. He even ventured into singing, as part of the late unlamented group Barako Boys
. After taking on buffoon roles in the movies, Christian Vasquez has apparently gone to showbiz la-la land. Good thing his underwear billboards and ads are still up – to remind us that once, there was a fresh-faced hunk with a charming Southern accent who brought us thrills and chills.
Aah, the joys of waking up late on a Sunday! No work and worries, just the ultimate revenge against the early-morning rising and rolling of weekdays. Time was when Sundays meant being roused from sleep early by the church bells [we used to live near the town church], and mother was in her usual booming self. It meant the church bells were not the only ones pealing. So naturally, as a good Catholic boy, we had to get up and go to mass with the family, then a hearty lunch and then siesta. It was a quiet life. But then again, everyone grows up and leaves the family home. And nothing more peaceful can come close to Sundays, living alone and in bed at 3 pm, with 16 missed calls from mother. Nothing as placid as the lingering and most trivial of banal facts: the sound of the tick-tocking clock on the night table, the eerie hum of the airconditioning unit, the dark and gloomy room, the scent of night juices. Or maybe, if you are lucky, a boy-stranger like Richard Guebar
beside you. Shining-smiling, like it’s still Sunday morning.