Because I am a shameless self promoter, I would like to repost in my blog several of the full book reviews I came across of ‘Lies My Yaya Should Have Told Me’ that came out both in print and online.

And hopefully, this gets you excited enough to show up to my book signing at Fully Booked, Bonifacio Hi Street, Taguig on November 22 (Saturday).

Thanks again for the support! Namaste.

From Carlomar Arcangel Daoana of The Daily Tribune (originally published on February 14, 2008) 

RJ Ledesma’s take on love and all things similar

Since the publication of Kitty Go’s two delightful volumes on the foibles of high society, there has been no “funny” read to emerge that can actually balance the tightrope between acute observation and simply rollicking humor, that is until RJ Ledesma’s Lies my Yaya should have told Me was launched last Thursday in Archeology in Rockwell.

The book, published by Anvil, is something we have been expecting from RJ all along, if I may hazard a guess. His must-read ruminations on love, dating and things similar in the 21^st century, as chronicled by two dailies, plus his energizing touch that  transformed Manual into the only irreverently smart men’s magazine in the country, had left us guessing what RJ can do with the format of a book.

Lies my Yaya should have told Me is, simply put, a suave masterwork to this juggler of many careers. The first chapter “Love is a Four-Letter Word” blurts out what may be a fundamental truth about men: “They confuse sex for love.” From here, the author darts toward assembling objects that curiously set the mood for sex, which men believe they have wrapped in smokescreen. The author, as a fact-seeking journalist, takes a quick jaunt to Victoria Court and cyber-cruises in dating sites to report first-hand the nitty-gritty of love’s nether regions.

 His vivisection of Christian Bautista’s “Hands to Heaven” is, however, the crux of this chapter, as it betrays the underlying message in the song’s refrain repeated five times: “Tonight I need your sweet caress,/Hold me in the darkness/Tonight you calm my restlessness/You relieve my sadness.” What looks like an innocuous string of words is actually deceptive. Warning the “three female readers of my column,” RJ decodes the lyrics as: “I want to go at it with you five times but I hope you don’t make me feel guilty in the morning when I give you a call.”

The second chapter, “The thin line between love and insanity,” ventures into terra incognita: the wrath of a woman.  The “rusty pliers,” a character that will evolve to Darth Vader proportions as one reads along, makes its initial appearance here. Essentially, the stories in the chapter are meant to make sense of woman’s a senselessness when she is fuming mad. RJ, in a stroke of genius, realizes that “she has the divine right to get angry at you about anything because it is entire your fault.”  He spirals into another Dante Alighieri hell by knowing the fury connected with PMS and ovulation. I have never read anything as reverential when it comes to woman’s body rhythms.

Dating, as seen through the eyes of RJ, gets demystified in the third chapter, “Mating Games.” His almost anthropological approach to the anatomy of flirting (ditto the svelte seduction of stilettos), which RJ concludes as a failure of interpretations, is juxtaposed with a she says/he says repartee on the nature of woman’s weight, all meant to save a man’s precious extremities once the conversation actually creeps up. Describing blind dates as “the Russian roulettes of the courtship world,” RJ reasons that “men shouldn’t be allowed to go on speed dating without a license” and “women shouldn’t go on speed dating without alcohol.”

The raison d’etre isn’t served until the last chapter, “The Parent Trap,” which reads like a somnambulist’s recollection of a guy meeting his girlfriend’s parents for the first time while simultaneously glimpsing a vision of his death. It’s incisive, not to mention hilarious, in a way that it exposes the nuances of the uniquely Pinoy phenomenon called dalaw, the prelude to the actual pamamanhikan.

“According to the book The Filipino Family,” the author writes, “tradition dictates that parents command their daughters to stay in their rooms and plug their ears full of cotton so that they can face the young man and pulverize him without restraint.  And, even if your dangle has yet to cause collateral damage, the Q&A serves as a preemptive strike to ensure the preservation of virgin territory.”

 In Lies my Yaya should have told Me, RJ’s strength lies more on hyperbole than irony. There’s nothing to read between the lines and all the scenes are meant to be imaginatively relished (yes, even the dog fornicating with the author’s leg in a beach) and in some instances, cringed upon, especially when rusty tools creep up as a warning against men’s nonsense and such. It’s evident that the author dips his foot into the territory of fiction, but not only for effect: he finagles truths about the human condition—chiefly, the eternal interplay between a man and a woman—by enlarging and sculpting situations to suit his end.

 As the book engages with Philippine contemporary life, the reader will not miss the deft tirades of the author on politics. RJ describes GMA’s approval ratings as “scant as the outfits” which “nubile starlets” wore in his TV show.  It’s commentary that doesn’t leave a bad taste in the mouth, but interests just the same because it is so left-field, so dripping with humor.

For some, the author may even be considered as a feminist—a self-deprecating figure prostate on the altar of Venus. But he is, deep down, just an ordinary bloke who is man enough to admit, recognize, even celebrate the importance of women—not merely for pro-creation purposes, mind you. Because of this, RJ may come across as merely earnest. But if earnestness is his vice, so be it.

From Paolo Lorenzana of Philippine Star’s Supreme (originally published on March 1, 2008)

Randomonium

Welcome to the 21st century, where the sexual revolution has revolved off into absurdity—and where a Pinoy guy in his 30s can unflinchingly write about his inadequacies and pay homage to the woman who constantly provides him wisdom, mis-education, and towels to wipe his pawis: his yaya.

Sure, any guy would have reaped emotional scars from hawking Royal Tru Orange in an ‘80s commercial that takes totoy to an unprecedented level, but that colorful blip in a man’s life only proves to add to the wisecracking, utterly self-deprecating persona of Rene “RJ” Ledesma, which is what prodded me to purchase Lies my Yaya Should have Told Me: RJ Ledesma’s Imaginary Guide to Whine and Women over Pulutan from the Soldier’s Kitchen, a bar chow cookbook compiled by two Oakwood mutineers-turned-gourmands who’ve whipped-up productivity from incarceration—the former, way tastier than a serving of adobong hito sa gata.

A collection of his columns from the Manila Times (“Playing With My Tools”) and The Philippine Star (“Pogi from a Parallel Universe”), Lies my Yaya Should have told Me chronicles its author’s testicle tickling—and kicking—travails in the savage lands of the female species; one presided over by a girlfriend who’s privy to the law (she’s a barrister) and won’t think twice about pummeling his man-parts with a gavel, a mother who’s amusingly overbearing, and, of course, a yaya who acts as the cackling entity looming over his manhood and the bastion of his subservience to the fairer sex.

No, the holy trinity of girlfriend-mother-yaya doesn’t really stand behind RJ holding cold gun barrels against his head as in Iraqi captive execution, but all the campy imagination makes for a riotous read, anyway; RJ writing of the 21st century Pinoy man’s concerns (Victoria Court motels and chloroform, boys’ nights out and KTVs, and all the blood-pumping dilemmas of having a d*ck) from the hazards of dating and the task of appeasing girlfriends we don’t seem to deserve, no matter how smart, funny, and rightfully geeky a man is. Whether it’s weathering women through “permissible manslaughter” (PMS) and irrationale (“She has the divine right to get angry at you about anything because it is your entire fault”) or having to learn the secret art of listening, RJ channels Steve Martin, Dolphy, and pre-Duplex Ben Stiller—especially when he meets his girlfriend’s parents in an essay entitled “Let Sleeping Pickles Lie”, an allusion to slipping some discretion to a mate’s parents to avoid the pickling of one’s testicles.

We’re all pretty much on the same train to men-only Auschwitz when we deal with the women in our lives, but with RJ as our crash test dummy fumbling for propriety and his girlfriend’s graces, we can stand at the sidelines rubbing our bellies and laughing nervously at how much of an absolutely clueless and lesser sex we are. Ledesma’s Lies makes for great pulutan for the imbecile’s soul (that means all hetero wielders of the schlong) and it’s good to see one guy, as they say, taking it like a man.

From Rome Jorge of Manila Times (originally published on April 3, 2008)

RJ Ledesma tells all about his Yaya, The Tru-Orange kid and his expose about his nanny

He started his literary career here at The Manila Times. His column, “Playing with My Tools,” reintroduced Filipinos readers to RJ Ledesma, then better known for being that kid, Joey, in the Royal Tru Orange commercial (if you’re old enough to remember, you’re old—like RJ and I are) who was sent by his mommy to buy some suka [vinegar, not puke].

He also co-hosted for that FHM-like TV show Men’s Room. In his column entries, he intimated: his fixation with supermodel Phoemela Barranda; his dependence on his yaya [nanny/wet nurse], belying any similarity of television commercial persona with his true self—that of a scion of real estate development empire, Ledesco; and his supposedly henpecked and Catholic-guilt-stricken relationship with Vanessa, now his wife. Read it and weep:

The Comet that Killed the Dinosaurs [RJ Ledesma’s pet name for his girlfriend, specifically when she’s pissed at him]: Why do you keep writing about Phoemela Barranda!? You think I find that funny!? Every week it’s Phoem this and Phoem that! It’s enough already that I have to compete with your yaya sleeping beside you at night, then Phoem pa!

RJ the dead idiot: What does this have to do with what we’re talking about? Love, you know I’m just writing about Phoem for humorous exaggeration, and you didn’t have to let the readers know about my yaya . . .

- Playing With My Tools, The Manila Times, May 29, 2005

Later, Ledesma became Editor in Chief of Manual Magazine. And then he left to us to write for that other newspaper filled with star columnists. Arrgh. The turncoat! But we know the dirt on Ledesma. And so does everyone, thanks to his new book, Lies My Yaya Should Have Told Me: RJ Ledesma’s Imaginary Guide to Whine and Women.

They say it’s a bestseller, most especially after it was allegedly mandated as required reading for the rank and file of Ledesco. Friends of Ledesma (as well as complete and utter strangers) can expect to receive copies of his book for Christmas, Valentine’s, Halloween, and on their wedding, baptism, confirmation and circumcision. Sources allege that this is but the first in Ledesma’s quest for ultimate power.

Rumor has it that a movie musicale based on the book (starring Barranda no less and the dashing Andrew E as Ledesma) is set to be released shortly before the campaign season of the next elections, where Ledesma is said to run for President under a platform of free government-subsidized soft drinks, a ban on all meat products and calls for an orange revolution.

Oh, about the book. It’s kind’a funny.

Be on the lookout for special copies with centerfold spread photos of Ledesma and nanny. Do not open—not unless you value the meal you ate beforehand.

In it as well are insights into the Pinoy psyche—at least the psyche of Pinoy who’s a vegan yoga instructor, real estate magnate, Couples for Christ member and men’s magazine editor. Definitely, the author is your typical guy.

Already, literary critics have lavished praise on the book:

“It made me cry.” -RJ Ledesma

Kidding aside, the book delivers oodles on the science behind romance such as the biochemistry of pheromones and oxytocins. It also delivers realistic situationers about romance and relationship for 21st century Pinoys—like Catholic guilt about premarital sex and skulking about drive-in motels just the same.

It’s a must read, especially for employees of Ledesco.

From Gmeleen Faye B. Tomboc of Clickthecity.com (originally posted on February 11, 2008)

Lies My Yaya Should Have Told Me

If you walk into a book launch graced by Mayor Binay and members of the diplomatic corps, you could have mistaken it for the launching of a coffee table book. However, once I spotted Gary Lising and DJ Mo Twister milling around, I knew there was something else to it.

On a Thursday night, RJ Ledesma (aka that guy in the Royal Tru Orange commercial) unveiled his first compilation “Lies My Yaya Should Have Told Me: RJ Ledesma’s Imaginary Guide to Whine and Women.” Gary Lising, DJ Mo Twister, Nancy Castiglione, Sam Oh, and Jojo “All the Way” Alajar were on hand to read out excerpts. Those familiar with his late-night show with stand-up comedian Tim Tayag (“The Men’s Room”) would definitely know what to expect from this paperback – tongue-in-cheek humor.

The book is a compilation of his essays from his previous column in the Manila Times called “Playing With My Tools,” and his current column for the Philippine Star called “Pogi from a Parallel Universe.” The observations on pick-up lines, dating, courtship, and certain life-changing events, such as dealing with the parents of your girlfriend, are razor-sharp, laugh-out-loud (not just chuckle) funny, and most of the time, embarrassingly true. How else can you explain this passage: “In their more complex minds, women mistakenly ‘boys’ night out’ with cheap beer, voluptuous women, and really lousy singing. They’re wrong you know- the beer isn’t cheap.”

Surprisingly, there’s a fair amount of research that went into each column- RJ cites sources running the gamut of the president of the American Board of Sexology to books such as “Shoes: A Celebration of Pumps, Sandals and Slippers.” There are also sprinklings of political innuendo thrown in: “(My) girlfriend informed me that I had first to ask her parents’ permission to accompany her to the United States. If there’s anything that scares me more than GMA’s mole, it is her parents.”

Of course, the evening could not have been complete without RJ’s yaya, who gamely hammed it up for the camera with her ward. There are more observations on everything else than on what RJ’s yaya actually told (or did not tell) him. But after going through all 107 pages, you wouldn’t mind.

This paperback is a fun read because RJ isn’t afraid to poke fun at himself; in one essay, he describes himself this way: “I was already a thirty something who had suffered his first bald spot (oh, the indignity!) and finally gained the privilege to watch porn movies guilt-free (but I still lock my door).” RJ shares, “The nice thing about humor is that you’re able to tell the truth in a way that you can accept it. Luckily I’m someone who has a very low threshold of embarrassment.”

A tour of the red light district.  These are the type of tours that can only be conceived in a country with offers over-the-counter marijuana.  And this is just the type of morally ambiguous tour that could pump up our limp tourism industry. “Just imagine the lively commentary, Mr. Secretary!” I excitedly blurted out.  “I can hear it now in my head: We are driving past one of the most popular hang outs among our politicians.  No, no, not the Department of Budget and Management!  I’m not sure what you call these places back your countries, but over here we call them KTVs.  There’s a lot of singing going on over here, but without the use of microphones.  (Badabump)  And if you want to add some culture to your trip, witness their nightly modeling shows and see how fishnet stockings and a string of faux pearls can pass off as clothing!  Here’s a special tip, if you arrive in the KTV with a congressional car plate, you get a special discount!”

“Love, why are you talking into your shoe?” my wife rolled her eyes. “I warned you not to go inside that coffeeshop kanina to buy that special mushroomburger!  I told you kasi those are not the same kind of mushroomburgers they sell in Tagaytay!” as she spoke I swear I could see word balloons coming out of her mouth.  “Now, look at you!  You’re even more delirious than usual.  Hay naku, we have to sober you up!”

So after being submerged in the romantic sewers of De Wallen for several minutes, I was finally lucid enough to embark on our self-guided tour. I was as giddy as an eight year old who had just discovered his dad’s stash of bomba magazines. Aside from overcoming of sleeping with the lights closed and reclaiming my foreskin, my other man-goal has been to visit Amsterdam’s red light district. I have always been curious as to how the sex workers would be plastered in front of those windows: Would they be standing in front of an SM Department Store-type window display with signs that screamed “Employee of the month” or “We take credit cards” of “50% off”? Or would they be sitting behind a one-way mirror where a thin slit allows the clients to peek at the sex workers, much like an aquarium at a KTV.  Or so I am told. 

But despite my excitement, I was very uncomfortable strolling these alleyways with my wife during our honeymoon.  This was almost like watching triple x movies with my parents while they were teaching me about sex.  Luckily enough, these red light mushroomburgers had a magical way of eliminating your stress, your apprehensions and many other neurological processes.  You’ll never find fungus like these in Hogwarts. 

While bobbing through the narrow alleys, I took some mental notes for my three female readers who are also secure enough to spend their honeymoon in De Wallen.  And also for the DOMs out there who would like to make their final resting place.   

SERVICING YOURSELF

This is a bit like Disneyland.  Especially if Daisy Duck told you that she could do things with her beak that would make you squeal like Mickey Mouse.  After previewing several of the girls behind the window displays, De Wallen reminded me of the ‘It’s A Small World’ ride in Disneyland.  And it’s not because you can ride on some of these girls or because you can have some of these girls ride on you. (Badabumpbump).  After leafing through the PIC guide and activity book, I discovered that there are a whopping four hundred and fifty windows in the red light district and, God help me, my wife and I saw every last one of those window displays. Let me tell you, if variety is the spice of life, then De Wallen is life on MSG.

There are reportedly more than a thousand sex workers of far-flung nationalities working different shifts in the red light district.  We caught women of every size, shape and location of body hair. In one alley, you had your Eastern European giantesses, in another alley you had your African warrior women, and you even your alley of your Oriental seductresses. But the alley that had me holding securely to my nether regions was the seemingly unending row of global transsexuals.  I am glad that my mind was blanketed in a mushroomburger-induced haze or else those transsexuals puckering up and blowing me a kiss would have been fried into my long-term memory.  However, there was one window display that had my gonads voluntarily retreating to the pit of my stomach: It was a three hundred and fifty pound black transsexual who was writhing with tattoos, sported an afro that has caused solar eclipses, displayed a grill of gold teeth, and was draped in a hot-pink bikini (Warning:  Please do not even attempt to visualize this image, you do not deserve this type of suffering). The permanently etched image of him/her in my mind was punishment enough for going on this tour.

It is perfectly fine to take pictures in the red light district.  Especially if you have a death wish.  According to the PIC’s frequently asked questions guide and pop-up book, there is an unwritten law in De Wallen that you should not take pictures of the sex workers.  Over the years, there have been many cases of tourists who have ignored the warning signs on the displays and brazenly snapped away pictures of the sex workers. These violations have often led to fingernail scars carved into faces, stiletto heels embedded in scalps and cameras shoved up into inappropriate orifices.  If you are willing to risk bodily harm, then my advice is to take pictures from a good thirty feet away.  When I took a picture from that distance, a well-hurled stiletto heel barely grazed the side of my head.  However, some of you may not be quick with your reflexes.  If you’ve spent too much time hyperventilating in a coffeeshop before hitting the window displays, then you will barely notice the brutish seven foot Dutch pimp with the handlebar moustache and nipple piercings who will take you from behind and pummel you into a nice red stain decorating De Wallen’s cobblestones.  Well, it is either him or the three hundred fifty pound black transsexual dragging you into her window display where she will suffocate you in the folds of his/her flesh.  But feel free to take pictures anyway in De Wallen if you are into suffocation.   

Behave.  You can only misbehave in the red light district once you’ve paid for it.  The PIC guidebook and connect-the-dots page says that the sex workers are well aware that they are also a tourist attraction. And even though they do not offer free trials to tourists, the important thing to remember is that you should show these workers respect at all times.  Please do not stand with your nose pressed against the door and beg, “Puh-leez, just one peek!”, please do not show them some coins and say, “How much can I get for these?” and, most importantly, do not ogle them.  I know, I know.  How can you not ogle a woman who is bathed under unflattering lighting conditions and dressed in an almost inexistent two piece when there is absolutely no sign of a beach nearby?  I’m Pinoy, I’m genetically predisposed to ogle. It’s a good thing my wife warned me that if I stare for more than three seconds, then my eyes would liquefy, I would grow a pair of breasts and the three hundred and fifty pound black transsexual would invite to be part of their window display. Of course my wife told me this while my body was still busy breaking down the effects of the mushroomburger.  She could have told me that I had more than three female readers, that she couldn’t tell the difference between me and Piolo Pascual, and that any constitutional change is really a people’s initiative, and I still would have believed her. 

Say your prayers.  What kind of red light district would this be without a church nearby? In true Dutch fashion, it is barely surprising that the Oude Kerk church was right across the Prostitute Information Center (seriously). In fact, it is the oldest parish church in Amsterdam which is still being used for both religious and cultural activities.  Artists from around often hold exhibits in the church, after which they the visit the window displays for art’s sake.

So for all those who have stopped for a red light in De Wallen, you needn’t worry about making penance – Oude Kerk is more than ready to mortify you with the requisite whips and chains. But these whips and chains are not be mistaken for the ones you find in the neighborhood sex shops.  

As we winded down our self-guided tour, I spied a red light that was blinking on and off, underneath which an emaciated woman with a platinum blonde wig, ashen skin and ill-fitting lingerie was banging her fist on the window.  “Damn that Trudie Styler.” she mumbled. “Damn her.” 

In the end, my visit to De Wallen wasn’t as thrilling as I expected it to be.  I didn’t get any adrenal rush.  I didn’t get any testosterone high.  I didn’t even get smothered by a three hundred fifty pound black transsexual.  And I think this is probably because I spent half my life being bred, battered and often incarcerated in an all-boys Catholic school.  I was practically raised on a diet of guilt and condemnation.  What these Dutch don’t realize is that for anything to be remotely entertaining to me, it needs to be illegal, illicit and deserving of punishment.  Sigh.  The next time I visit De Wallen, I really should bring along my yaya.

Whew.  That red light visit was enough to last me several lifetimes in purgatory.  Now I think I’ll visit an attraction that requires less tourist interaction.  Like the sex museum (Badabumpbump).