UNO Magazine Version 2.0 June 2009

It began with the Japanese Monster Sex Show.

This was what a rather harmless looking baby-faced man with a perennial scowl, a slight paunch and a predilection to wearing rock music t-shirts two sizes too large for his baby damulag body recommended, nay, demanded that I use as the title of the monthly music column that he would write for me in my previous stint as an Editor-in-chief of a now defunct men’s magazine (Although I still fail to see what the title of his column had to do with music unless the squeals of three hundred foot tall monsters in the throes of love sounded like heavy metal).

But I trusted this man and his monster of a writing ability.  Because this man was as brilliant as he was quirky, as visionary as he was obsessive, and as sane as he could be without medication.  This man, whose squinty-eyed countenance had been peering at me from his Philippine Star column ‘Outside’ for the part thirteen or so years, was Erwin Romulo: editor, writer, and a fan of musicians with names like Throbbing Gristle, Millions of Dead Cops and Dr. Octagon (Actually, Mr. Romulo used a more potent Japanese term for ‘sex show’ called b!@#$&*.  And this type of show is quite popular among adult movie connoisseurs, dibidi vendors and sex offenders.)

I was on the brink of saying yes to Erwin’s recommended column name until I went online to surf for the English translation to b!@#$&*. Suddenly, my monitor was showered (almost literally) by several hundred definitions of this word along with explicit visual support.  When my wife saw all those images penetrate my monitor, she set me on fire with her Godzilla breath.

As soon as I exorcised my laptop, went to confession, and was flogged several hundred times, I called Erwin “Let’s call your column ‘Just The Two Of Us’ because you are writing it with your heterosexual life partner and soft porn peddler Quark Henares.  And, by the way,” I cleared my throat “You are paying for my physical therapy.”

Unfortunately, after pounding out a few columns, Erwin disappeared on like a radioactive lizard plunging back into the depths of the ocean while Quark went AWOL after he was put on the hit list MTRCB censors. Months later, Erwin resurfaced as an editor slash writer besieging another publication. Then in another.  And another.  It seemed as if everybody wanted several hundred words from prolific writing journeyman. At this point, I knew that Erwin was no longer a man. He was now a gremlin in an Olympic-sized swimming pool.

What made this Palanca award-winning literary sumo wrestler leave my stable of writers?  Was it because of the lack of oomph in the title of the column?  Was it because of creative ennui? Was it because of the call of another Japanese monster in heat? I will never know.  But, I knew that one day, I would be able to give him the liberty to pursue his Japanese monster sex show. And that he would be in my thrall again.

Fast forward three-and-a-half years later: Erwin and I were grizzly, este, grizzled veterans of the local magazine industry. And although we felt that our best work was still way ahead of us, the global economy had a contrary perspective: We were both out of our respective magazine jobs (Well, at least I was.  But misery is always better when it is equitably distributed).  When I was freshly unemployed, I tried touching base with Erwin to find out if he could spare me some writing assignments in his magazine. Much to my surprise, Erwin was trying to reach me for some writing assignments as well.

Aha!  This was divine synchronous madness at work. After sending each other a flurry of mutually gratifying texts that bordered on bromance (a bromance much like that of Marc Nelson and Rovilson Fernandez but without the abs and the product endorsements), we reckoned it would be best if we worked together in another men’s magazine that would allow us more leeway for the catch-all phrase ‘creative experimentation’. A men’s magazine that would unflinchingly hand us the editorial leash so that we could tighten our own nooses.  And a men’s magazine that would finally allow Erwin a column for a Japanese monster sex show.

And we found a men’s magazine of that mettle with UNO magazine.

Now here we were: RJ “Joker” Ledesma and Erwin “The Riddler” Romulo.  The dysfunctional duo. Now all we needed was one more arch-villain so that we could put up our very own Arkham Asylum.  And we found it in a sliver of a man named Juan Caguicla: part-photographer, part-artist, part-tattoo, quarter metal and one eighth metal chopstick.  This man had “artist” written all over his body parts, quite literally.  When Erwin first introduced me to Juan, his presence was so intimidating that he could cause small animals and little children to scamper away.  I know that I had involuntary bladder discharge when I first men him.

But when Juan first exposed his portfolio to me, I knew he was going to be our “Two-Face”. For those unfamiliar with his work, this is what In-Print Magazine (September 2005) had to say about Juan’s photographic prowess, ‘his work will suck you in and spit you out feeling as if you were momentarily blinded, wondering what the hell it was that robbed you of your sight for a split-second. There is a story to every photograph but not every story is worth remembering. In Juan’s case, his photographs paint stories that will haunt you leaving you imagining a million different possibilities for endings.”

And when you see the Juan sucks and spits you through the visual artistry (yes, artistry) of the rebooted UNO magazine, you will believe that this tattooed man knows the crevices of women bodies like he knows the crevices his camera lens.

Once the three of us were on board, we filled up our asylum with our favorite lunatic fringe with the singular goal of world domination. Or, at the very least, free Krispy Kreme donuts, unlimited brewed coffee and wi-fi for everyone.   And nobody will stop us from seeing our plans to fruition. Not North Korea. Not the UN Security Council. Not the Boazanian invasion force. Well, except maybe for maybe Jessica Zafra.

UNO will be the anthropologists that trawl the underbelly, the overbelly, and the bilbil of our evolving Pinoy pop culture as it makes out with the rest of the pop-mad global culture.  Our madhouse team of writers, photographers, artists and convicts plan to construct a Byzantine structure of words and images that speak unabashedly to those of us who grew up wearing Voltes V underwear, gorging on sweetened spaghetti and drinking Royal Tru Orange, while watching the Saturday showdown on That’s Entertainment.

So when you read the June issue of our publication, we’ll be rubbing your brains harder than a masseuse in Quezon Avenue.  Don’t believe me?  Let’s put it this way, the topics that have plagued our creative forums via email groups would have had us arrested in less democratic countries:

PG Porn. Kool Aid flavors. Pick up artists summits. Evil yayas.  Avant garde fashion shoots.  Voltes V. Guest editors. Sex scandal videos. Eskrima. Weaponized swine flu.  Animated covers.  Morrisey.  Bebigirls versus Supergirls. Sturgeon faces. The tunay na lalake blogspot. Alan Moore. Never-ending haiku beat downs.   Kinatay.  Male brazilian waxes.  Star Wars themed marriages. Parkour.  Cross-dressing Japanese teenage boys.  Grant Morrison.  Sasha Grey.  Underwater hockey.  The electric friendship generator. Tony Perez.  Codpieces. J.G. Ballard. Stalker blogs. Jail bitch names. Evil robots.  Japanese game shows. Warren Ellis. Ultimate surrender.  Recessionista gays.  Superhero fashion emergencies. Tantric sex.

We are just waiting to be called to the next Senate investigation.

But, hold on to your laser sword, that’s just one half of the UNO formula. Because we’d be certifiable if we thought that we could pump out a men’s magazine that didn’t depict the fine female form. And the operative words here are a fine depiction of that form.  Instead of being fined for our depiction of that form.

Don’t get me wrong.  We appreciate the aesthetics of the female form as much as the other male magazines that parade the newsstands.  In fact, many of us grew up and grew assymetrical forearms seeing how these finer magazines showed us in garish detail how to appreciate aesthetics that had been technologically enhanced, airbrushed and photoshopped.  However, we also think that there is still room in the men’s magazine market to portray female geography free of baby oil, of nipple tape, of fig leafs and of whatever fruits are in season.  And hopefully free of some photoshop as well.

We at UNO Version 2.0 want to celebrate the sexiness of the female form as much as the next testosterone-addled male. But we think we can portray the fairer and less hairier sex as something more than just a set of biological signals that gets blood pumping into body parts that Viagra can effortlessly reach. We firmly believe that women are sexy beyond mere biology (But we do enjoy biology as much as the next male high school student. And Juan, God bless every little tattooed inch of him, will make sure of that). Now, we won’t be bold enough (pun, uhm, intended) to proclaim that we’ve figured out how women can be sexy beyond biology, but we’re willing to give a crack (Uhm, pun not intended either) at it.  You see, sexy can be an experience.  Sexy can be an attitude. Sexy can be a philosophy. Sexy can be a way of being. And a sexy woman who is an artful, chaotic mishmash of all these attributes, she can be more complex than chaos theory.

Welcome then, every all, to the evolution of sexy.

And to start off this grand singular experiment in sexy, we’re getting some electroshock therapy from another Philippine Star columnist who will grace the cover of our revamped magazine. And here’s a clue: You can count your cocktails that’s its not fellow columnist Scott Garceau (or else his wife would have used her Godzilla fire breath on him).

So do we know what we expect from magazine in the next couple of months?  Hell, neither do I.  But I’m willing to be taken for a ride.  So hang on for dear life, bring along some clean underwear and we promise to arouse, to arise and to surprise.

Because this is Voltes team volting in.

This is Narda choking on a magic pebble

This is Billy Batson wailing Shazam.

This is Hot Rod when he gripped the Matrix in Transformers the Movie.

This is Japanese Monster sex show, baby.

This is the all-new, all-different UNO Magazine.

And we are going to blow your away like no Japanese monster ever could.

Upon the invitation of The Tides Hotel Boracay and Seair Airlines for their Bacardi Boracay Bound ‘Live Well, Party Hard’ series, I spent a star studded-weekend in this little sliver of Aklanon paradise. These included such luminaries as the heterosexual life partners Marc Nelson (my imaginary arch-nemesis whose abs look better than me) and Rovilson Fernandez (who owes me an hour of my life for letting me watch The Duke on AXN, an hour of which I will never get back again), Amazing Racers Geoff Rodriguez and Tisha Silang, Kjwan lead singer and closet Star Wars geek Marc Abaya, actress Angelu de Leon and other balls of plasma, As for me, I pretty much fell into the category of a stud (but not in the animal husbandry kind of way)

During this little vay-cay, I happily incarnated in Boracay under a new civil status. Braving Typhoon Emong, I enjoyed Boracay for the first time (again) with my beach-addicted wife, my three-month old baby girl and, of course, my all-powerful and all-knowing yaya. For those of you who have traveled with an infant, I am sure you can commiserate with me when I say that this trip was the logistical equivalent of performing in the Saturday edition of That’s Entertainment. However, my wife and I were lucky that our yaya had the mutant power of opening up extra-dimensional space inside of our maletas. I think my yaya packed our beach outfits, the baby’s entire wardrobe, a generator set and a life support system into three maletas and we still weren’t charged for overweight baggage at the airport.

Although I did live up to Boracay Bound’s edict to “Live Well”, I probably fared as well as a bidder for the Comelec poll automation when it came to “Party Hard”. Much to my wife’s delight, I have exorcised the heathen spirit of bachelorhood from my system (I tried hard to exorcise Rovilson, but he refused to dissipate into a wisp of smoke). Instead of negotiating my way back to my hotel room in the wee hours of the morning after my earwax has been blasted away by techno-funk-chill-deephouse or whatever they call disco music nowadays, I am now negotiating a stroller through thick, wet slush looking for a place to sink my baby’s feet for into the sand just so I can hear her coo. And you know what, my three female readers? I wouldn’t have it any other way.

But, dare I say it, those heathen days were hella fun too. Especially those heathen days before Boracay was the host to a Bacchanalian holy week, before Boracay became the poster child for advertising campaigns, and before Boracay was blasted into national consciousness in a short-lived sitcom that gave away the location of our little Visayan hideaway to the rest of the world.

Those were the days when indiscretion was a bit of the norm. This was when Boracay could steal a page from the Vegas playbook and brag that ‘Whatever happens in Boracay, stays in Boracay’. But, nowadays, it’s more of ‘Whatever happens in Boracay, gets captured in the video function of a cellphone, posted on Facebook, Multiply, Plurk, Twitter and finally YouTube, then downloaded, burned into a DVD and sold under the title “Boracay Scandal Volume 13” in Quiapo for sixty pesos’. Who knew what indiscretion could be so profitable (Isn’t that right, Paris Hilton)?

This was Bora (yep, just plan Bora. Close kami eh) when it was on the verge. And for those of us who braved our way to Bora when it was on the verge, I am certain that we have our share of those Bora stories that seem to mutate with each re-telling.

There are Bora stories that we do not share because they are too close to our hearts, livers and other irreplaceable organs. There are Bora stories that we do not share because of a court order. And there are Bora stories that, depending on our audience, can be recounted in a General Patronage version (if lola is around), PG-13 version (if parents are around), R-rated version (if barkada is around), and a version that will never be approved by the MTRCB (if hardened criminals who are not allowed conjugal visits are around). Especially if the last version involves midget transsexuals, gerbils, and engine oil wrestling.

But I hazard to guess that the common theme most of our Bora stories share, aside from mud-wrestling midget transsexuals, is the story of excess. After all, as most vice-ridden addicts and DPWH contractors are wont to say, excess is always best.

The first time I planted my feet in Bora, the shoreline was still free of franchise restaurants and coffee shops, of itinerant vendors hawking fake watches, cheap pearls and wooden ship replicas, and of brazenly discarded cigarette butts, empty plastic wrappers and discarded water bottles. And I was still a pasty-white thirty-six inch waist lined corporate peon with a stress-induced bowel problem, who so desperately needed a respite from the Makati rat race. During the early nineties, Bora was already well-known for its restorative powers: aside from the island’s ability to recharge your overtaxed grey matter by lazing away your day with a mojito in hand while zoning out in front of the beach station that fit your vacation budget, the island also had the ability to improve eyesight and blood circulation because it was visited by young buxom European women whose English skills were inversely proportional to their cup sizes.

And what was the first thing we end up doing in Paradise Island (with apologies to Joey Gosengfiao)? Since there were no neighborhood hair braiders at the time, we ended up drinking.

Since I was brought up in the Negrense culture, I had been reared to think that the only pastime an avowed Ilonggo could have was to drink himself into cirrhosis. So the first thing my friends and I did was to trudge up to Moondog’s bar, and sacrifice my liver to their infamous “15…and Still Standing” challenge. For the blissfully uninitiated, this challenge involves consuming fifteen of the vilest alcoholic concoctions known to man or to buxom European women. Some of these drinks are so lethal that you need to sign a waiver that spelled out your next of kin.

If you consumed all fifteen shots, whether in five minutes or five hours, your name would not only be etched onto a mini-“Hall of Fame” inside the bar, but your triumph would also be translated into a chalk mark that would be added to your country of origin on a blackboard displayed on top of the bar that read “Crazy $%#^&^%$^ from around the world that drank this s^&% and lived” (or something like that). Aside from that rather dubious honor, for the P850 you spent on the fifteen shots, you also go home with a limited edition “15 and Still Standing” t-shirt and stomach pump.

However, if you did not finish all the shots because – I don’t know, maybe you are unconscious and spread-eagled on the floor while lying in a pool of your bodily fluids – the bar management would take your picture, blow it up to poster size, hang it outside the bar, with the words ‘Women Beware! Pathetic Loser who couldn’t hold his drink’ below your &^%-faced face (or something like that).

After saying my act of contrition in the toilet, I strode up to the bar, smiled nervously at my friends and fellow DOMs, closed my eyes, and downed my first shot, which was quite appropriately called “Hair of the Dog”. I later found out that this drink was composed of some white tequila, some Tabasco sauce, and some radioactive waste. And to tell you frankly, I would much rather have drank the hair of a dog.

Once the drink burned its way down my throat and into my stomach, I barged out of the bar searching for an open sewer where I could spew out my intestines. Unfortunately, all that I could throw up was spit, bile, and what was left of my pride. “Dear Lord”, I thought, “If I can’t even down that one drink, people are going to call me a pathetic loser…Again!” If that happens, what would be my chances with those young buxom European women? So I reluctantly steeled myself, went back to my hotel to change into clean underwear, cry for about fifteen minutes, and then made my way back into the bar.

Maybe it was the clean underwear, maybe it was years of Ilonggo genetic material finally kicking in, or maybe it was because that first drink managed to cauterize all my internal organs, but I miraculously breezed through the rest of the fourteen drinks. It didn’t matter if they were serving me vodka, whiskey, absinthe, moonshine, mouthwash or muriatic acid, I was chugging down these shots like my stomach was built out of asbestos. Even after the fifteenth drink, as my friends grew glassy-eyed, were unable to form coherent speech and lost all bladder control, I was still inexplicably sober. I pumped my fist in the air and shrieked, “Thank you Lord! I am not a pathetic loser after all!” I asked my friends to lift up their glasses for a toast, but it was difficult for them to do any toasting while they were decorating the bar with their dinner.

Thinking that divine intervention had granted me a reprieve from getting piss-stinking drunk that evening, I decided to binge a wee bit more. So I had a wee bit more Red Horse, a wee bit more Cuervo, a wee bit more Fundador, and a wee bit more Kulafu rice wine. And, trust me, I did a lot of weeing that night. After I washed down my last glass of Kulafu, I let out a very satisfied belch, jiggled my now forty inch waistline, and was ready to ferret out those young buxom European women before any of the DOMs get to them. But once I got up from my seat, I discovered that gravity was my new arch-nemesis. My legs turned to gulaman as I keeled over and became intimate with the bar’s barf-ridden concrete floor. I don’t remember much after making contact with the concrete floor except for fleeting images of engine oil-smothered midget wrestling transsexuals. And some squeaking gerbils too.

The next day, I woke up to an askal licking me in body parts that were inappropriate for licking, and found myself still sprawled on the bar’s dried-up barf-ridden floor. “Whew,” I thought, “at least there isn’t a poster outside the bar that says I’m a pathetic loser.” When I finally regained the sensation in my legs, I dragged myself up, and lumbered towards the toilet to wash my face. And when I looked into the mirror, that’s when I saw the industrial strength henna-tattooed words “Pathetic Loser” scribbled across my chest.

So, my new Bora story is that my wife and I had an early Sunday breakfast at Real Coffee (one of the D’Boracay originals) where we had a great chat with the owner, Nadine, over the secret origin of their Calamansi muffin. That will be my Bora story from now on. Now, if only I can sue muriatic acid to scrub off the words “Pathetic Loser” from my chest before my daughter is old enough to read.

So there we were, last place starters on the Samsung Innov8 Race, armed only with a good insurance policy, empty bladders and Amazing Race Asia’s Rovilson (or his prison nickname “Rovi”) Fernandez’s crumbling ego.  Our four man team, composed of a Samsung representative, a cell phone dealer, a good-looking member of the press and a scalp-deficient celebrity, were off on an eight part race where each consecutive task grew exponentially difficult: take pictures using our Samsung cell phone, perform a series of tai-chi movements, scurry up a fifty-foot high wall, drive three laps down a championship race course, explain the concept of double insertions to the Senate minority, overthrow the administration, bring about world peace, and watch an eighteen hour DVD of The Best of Kris Aquino’s game show hostings.   

There were three things that would propel us to victory in this contest: an intimate knowledge of Metro Manila’s eskinitas, a mutant ability to interface with the Samsung Innovate i8510 cell phone and the bile-forming fear that we would lose to our evil counterparts, those two whose names should be uttered only if you want to induce loose bowel movement: STAR columnist JR “good things come in small packages” Isaac and the Jon “my package is bigger than your package” Hall.  

For our team, this was a chance to each score a free i8510.  But it was much more for the geographically-illiterate Rovi: this was his chance for redemption from his lackluster Amazing Race Asia finish behind a well-groomed of Singaporean gymrats and a team of perky Malaysian mestizas (Rovi’s strategy: If you can’t beat them, make one of them your girlfriend). He was determined that we would be the first team zipping away from the starting line until my mutant ability to urinate every thirty minutes forced our team to make a last minute detour to the restroom. 

“You guys are a bunch of wimps!” Rovi wailed as we squeezed into the pick up.  “This never happened to Marc and I when were on The Amazing Race Asia! We did what we real men do and wore adult diapers!” Rovi folded his arms and started talking to himself. “Do you think you could do that Jon Hall! Do you!  All you can do is use your pectorals to crush chestnuts!”

“Uhm, Rovi, do you any last minute advice for us before we zoom off?” I asked.  “Should have a game plan? Should we pack extra underwear?  Should we have last rites?  Should we replace you with Marc Nelson?” 

“The most important thing in this race is,” Rovi cleared his throat, “To think of witty banter with your partner so you get more face time when they edit the show for tv. Or just cuss a lot.  Remember – controversy equals ratings!  Now let’s go speed racer!”

GO, GO SPEED RACER

For our three female readers who want to risk trauma, dignity and scalp exposure in a reality tv-inspired show race, here are a couple of our uninsured tips:

1.      It is best to have a driver who is a theoretical physicist.  Our driver believed that counterflow, tailgaiting and, most importantly, a red light – were all theoretical concepts.  Once we figured out that our first task was to find the quickest route from The Peninsula Hotel in Makati to Rajah Sulayman in Manila, we plowed through several orange cones, cement barriers and MMDA representatives.  We drove so fast that I think we left my testicles behind along the stretch of Roxas Boulevard.  However, speed alone is not enough when you might potentially lose to your imperfect duplicates JR and Jon.  Careening down Metro Manila streets on warp drive means that you will possibly break the law.  And to be able to break the law effectively, you need to enlist the assistance of law enforcement.  Note the proper way of how to go about it.  

“Bulag ba kayo (Are you blind)!?”   barked the portly MMDA traffic enforcer who had more chins than Chinatown, “Can’t you see this is a one-way street!?”  

“Sir, sir, ok lang yan (Sir, sir, it’s all ok).” I smirked.  We’re celebrities competing in a reality tv show inspired race. May k kami (We’ve got the power).”

“At may k akong ilubog kayong lahat sa pink urinal (And I have the power to dunk all of you in the pink urinals).” The MMDA representative grunted, “Saan yung lisensya ng driver ninyo (Where’s the license of your driver)?” he motioned with his fingers. 

“’Di mo ba ako naaalala (Don’t you remember who I am)!?” I was aghast.   “Ako yung sa Royal Tru-Orange noon? (I was the one from Royal Tru-Orange before)” the enforcer scratched his head (of course I am sure he merely feigned ignorance).

“Ikaw ba yung softdrink machine na nagiging robot (Are you the softdrink machine that turns into a robot)?” he sneered.

“Ako si Joey (I’m Joey)!” I growled while whipping out my wallet sized reproductions of all my fifteen commercials, three posters, and newspaper articles to refresh his memory.   

The MMDA enforcer was about to put his batuta to good use when Rovi interrupted.  “Officer, don’t you know who I am?” he mugged a smile.  “I’m the reason why the Philippines lost in the Amazing Race Season Two?”

The enforcer’s face lit up like a congressman who just got his pork barrel. “Woooowww, seerrr!!” he shrieked and clapped his hands.  “Mas-kyut ka pala sa personal.  Pahengeng awtograp (You’re cuter in person. Can I have your autograph)!”

Two minutes later, we were racing down Roxas Boulevard with a bevy of MMDA escort vehicles helping us wang-wang our way through traffic.  Despite being sardine-tight inside our pick up, our sumo-sized traffic enforcer insisted that he sit beside Rovi for the duration of our trip. “Bosing, baka pwede mo akong batiin sa teevee?” (Boss, can you greet me on tv?)” he giggled while gently sliding his arm around Rovi’s waist.  “At pa-keeees naman jan (And can I have a kiss).”  Rovi clenched his teeth. “This never happened to Marc and I when we were on the Amazing Race Asia.” he sighed.

Because of Rovi’s tongue-in-cheek sacrifice, we were the first ones to arrive at Rajah Sulayman. We bounced out of the vehicle to start our first challenge while we left Rovi inside the pick up to gargle with lighter fluid. And by the time Rovi had emptied the contents of the car deodorant into his mouth, we had completed our first picture-taking challenge on the i8510. 

“Take that Singapore!” Rovi raised his fist in his defiance while we received our next clue. When we zipped away from Rajah Sulayman, we spied the arrival of our imagined arch-rivals JR and John at the stop.  “And take that Jon Hall.” Rovi muttered under his breath.  “Your underwear contract is mine, b&*^%.”

2.      Hey Peydro, hows my Tagalog?  Although the featured mugshots of Sam Milby, Will Devaugh and Mo Twister appear on the Most Wanted posters for the atrocities they have committed against the national language, my name and Rovi’s name have managed to sneak into the poster as repeat offenders.  We have been guilty of mangling the vernacular beyond recognition, so much so that anybody within hearing range of us when we speak Tagalog have their heads spontaneously explode.  Among the many crimes perpetrated against the language include invented Tagalization, sentence and grammatical de-construction, misplaced inflection and enunciation, and, the most horrible of them all, vowel pronunciation.  Witness a crime in progress:

Still giddy from breezing through our first challenge and with only a hint of the MMDA enforcer’s smell on his breath, Rovi and I struggled to decipher the directions of our next stop. 

“Where the hell is this Taylo street!” Rovi screeched. “You guys are such race amateurs!  This never happened to Marc and I when we were on The Amazing Race Asia.” He folded his arms, closed his eyes and lifted his nose. 

I elbowed Rovi on the nose.  “The cell phone’s global positioning system (GPS) says that there are three possible locations for Taylo in Makati.” I continued to fiddle with the cell phone.  “There are two Taylo streets and one Taylor street.  Maybe the GPS does not understand the concept of an eskinita?”

“We’ve asked several tricycle drivers and they have no clue where that street is!?” Rovi ranted “All they did was ask for my autograph and a beso-beso on the cheek!”  he said while suppressing a grin.

“Rovi, maybe the organizers made a mistake we’re supposed to look for a Taylor street?”

After fifteen minutes of driving around aimlessly and giving away free autographs to tricycle drivers, we were forced to make a pitstop at a neighborhood police station.  Rovi and I were initially reluctant to enter the station because the only times we have ever been inside one was when we were asked to join a police line up.

“Officer, alam nyo ba kung saan ang Taylo (Officer, do you know where Taylo street is)?”

“Ano (What)?” he was visibly annoyed that we had interrupted him from completing his Sudoku puzzle.

“Tay-low.” I enunciated.   

The officer furrowed his brows, “Jay-Low?”  

Dear Lord in heaven, help me because I want to decapitate a police officer. “Hindi po. Tay-low (No, sir.  It’s Tay-low).”

“Niloloko mo ba ako (Are you making fun of me)?” The cop’s nose flared. “Baka naman yung hinanahap mo ay Tay-lo (Maybe you are looking for Tay-lo)?”

“Tay-lo?”

“Tay-lo yan, hindi yan Tay-Low. Para ka namang ‘kano kung magsalita (It’s Tay-lo, not Tay-low.  You’re pronouncing it like an American)!” The officer rolled his eyes “Yung tamang pagbigkas ng ‘a’ sa ‘Tay’ ay hindi parang play.  Ang tamang pagbigkas ng ‘a’ sa ‘Tay’ ay parang patay.” (The right way to pronounce the ‘a’ in ‘Tay’ is not like how you pronounce it in play.  The right way to pronounce the ‘a’ in’Tay’ is like how you pronounce patay)

Patay kang bata ka.  (Uhm, you’re a dead child)

“Ipaplantsa mo nga yung dila mo (Get your tongue ironed out)!” the cop pursed his lips and used it to point left, “Doon lang yung Taylo (Taylo’s just over there).”

I bit my tongue in disdain while Rovi punched his fist against the wall.  “Damn you Jon Hall!  Damn you!”  After that impromptu grammar session, we tried to dash out of the police station.  But the officer grabbed ahold of Rovi’s disproportionately large right forearm.  “Huy, kalbo (Hey bald man)!” he sniggered, “Pa-keeees naman jan (I think you know what this means already)!” Rovi dropped his head.  “This never happened to Marc and I when we were in the Amazing Race Asia.”

And just like most US investment banks, everything went downhill for our team from there.

Our loose vowel movement had done its damage.  When we finally arrived at the second stop, our egos evaporated when we discovered that our team had dropped to fourth place.  And despite how many times Rovi had to give mouth to mouth to law enforcers, despite the number of times we had to explain that there was nothing anomalous about double insertions, and despite watching eighteen hours worth of Kris Aquino, we never regained our first place standing.  By the time we had clawed our way to the last leg of the race, there was a mad scramble between three teams for second place finish.  Which, incidentally, leads me to the last tip on how to lose with dignity on a reality tv show inspired race:

3.      When in doubt, protest.  It happens in beauty contests, it happens in national elections, and it happens in jack en poy:  We Pinoys never really lose.  We just get cheated out of our victory. And we re-lived this proud tradition when the other teams wanted to urinate on, what appeared to be, our second-place finish.  Some of them complained to the organizers that we had not yet completed one task before moving on to the next one, some of them complained that I had left my testicles along the stretch of Roxas Boulevard, and some even had the gall to complain that Rovi and I should be arrested for acts of lasciviousness during the course of the race. How dare they accuse us of acting!  If they have any complaints, I say tell those teams to elevate their complaints to the Comelec. I’m sure the Comelec will render a fair and impartial decision by the time that we have grandchildren. 

In the end, the anti-Christs JR Isaac and Jon Hall clinched first place in the race.  Congratulations JR and Jon!  You deserve the first prize as much as GMA deserves the presidency.  Meanwhile, our team ended up in third place.  “Oh well.  At least I’m consistent.”  Rovi sighed “But your underwear contract will be mine one day, Jon Hall.”  

But even with our third place finish, the lower ranked teams persisted with their complaints.  One of the teams even accused us of doping.  “Look,” I fumed. “We weren’t doping!  I know that Rovi has a disproportionately large right forearm.” Then I whispered loudly, “But is it his fault that he was single for such a long time!?”

Hay naku, don’t those lower ranking teams realize that they didn’t lose to doping?  They just lost to a couple of dopes. 

I dread the idea of participating in Amazing Race-inspired type competitions for several reasons. And it’s not just because I lack the chiseled physique, the matinee idol features and the carpet of chest hair. First of all, I am so lousy at competitive games that I even lose at solitaire.  Second, I have already humiliated myself, my wife, my family, my barangay, my three female readers and the general Pinoy male population by admitting that my yaya continued to bathe me even after I had sprouted underarm hair.  I do not require further humiliation.  And, lastly, I have read that sudden bursts of adrenaline can accelerate my impending hair loss.   

However, I found myself willing to sacrifice a few thousand strands for the Samsung’s day-long Innovate Race. This is because any man with enough testosterone coursing through his blood would gladly eschew his dignity to win a brand new Samsung Innov8 (i8510).  The is the type of celphone that causes men to salivate without resorting to pornography: It I has an eight-megapixel camera phone, surround-sound cinematic video experience, pre-embedded 3D games, high-speed data connections and some long-range nuclear missiles. If it had any more features, we could use the i8510 to take over a small Pacific island.  

In the days leading up the race, I embarked on an intensive training regimen: I built up my stamina by watching all-night marathon episodes of The Amazing Race Asia (TARA), I honed my mental agility by coming up with witty remarks, clever sound bites and phrases chock-full of sexual innuendos, and to finally rid myself of pride, I bathed twice a day with my yaya.

Armed with an encyclopedic knowledge of every TARA contestant’s vital statistics, interesting euphemisms for male genitalia and well-scrubbed pink parts, I confidently strode towards the registration table on race day, where I found out that each team would be randomly composed of a Samsung representative, a cell phone dealer, a member of the press, and a six pack ab-sporting celebrity.  As the mechanics of the game were being explained, I clasped my hands and prayed that God would group me with a pandesal-packed celebrity who had the agility, the determination and the experience to win this race.  And also a celebrity who would not upstage me during the picture-taking sessions.  God heard my prayer and he blessed my team with a veteran of a reality tv show race.  This veteran was a man with no fear.  A man with no scalp hair.  And a man with no sense of geography.  My team got TV Host and roast chicken lover Rovilson Fernandez. (“Why do you mock me, God?  Why!?”)

For those who do not know Maxim Magazine Executive Editor and hair loss advocate Rovilson Fernandez or “Rovi” (as he is known by his close friends and the regular clientele of Adonis KTV), Rovi was partnered up with a man who is just too good looking to be left alive – Mr. Marc “Don’t hate me because I’m beautiful and I have a thousand product endorsements” Nelson on last season’s AXN The Amazing Race Asia.  Rovi and Marc were at the cusp of becoming the first Pinoy team to clinch the show’s grand cash prize, if only Rovi had paid more attention during his Social Studies class.  But before Rovi and that damnable Marc Nelson were heterosexual life partners on TARA, Rovi and I were heterosexually dating for one season of Studio 23’s critically-acclaimed late night show The Men’s Room (my mom was very critical of it).  While exposing ourselves gratuitously on public television, I discovered that Rovi and I have shared a lot of common interests – a passion for the publishing industry, our undying love for women named Vanessa, and a tendency to recycle our underwear. Unfortunately, Rovi had to leave the Men’s Room once tsismis columnists had the temerity to accuse us of being romantically linked. Rovi would’ve wanted to stay on the show, but those rumors had scared away his best customers at Adonis KTV. 

Once Rovi and I re-connected by making beso beso in the most masculine way possible, we began sizing up the celebrity and media participants.  That’s when we realized that it would take more than our rugged good looks to win this competition.  We were up against two seasons’ worth of Amazing Race Asia veterans who were divvied up amongst the competing teams. We slightly went our pants when we spied ABS-CBN Publishing’s Ernie Lopez (Season 1) and model Geoff Rodriguez (TARA Season 3).  But the contenders who made us feel like we were not yet circumcised were MetroActive editor-in-chief Jeena Lopez (Season 1), beauty queen Tisha Silang (current Season 3) and sportscaster Shaan Bermudez.  Damn.  Have you seen how physically intimidating these women are!?  Each one of them probably had more cojones than Rovilson and I combined.     

But emasculation aside, Rovi and I knew that our real competition in this race would be the powerhouse team of fellow STAR lifestyle columnist JR “the power broker” Isaac and former underwear endorser Jon “the power package” Hall. In our hearts and in our groins, karma saw it fit that our teams be up against each other in a challenge that required grit, skill and man-cleavage – those two were our opposite numbers, our evil doubles from a parallel universe, and our bizarro twins.  This was going to be a match of jock versus jock. And of pretty boy versus pretty boy.  And I am so damn sick of having to play the jock. Again.

“Stop powdering your face!” I smacked Rovi at the back of his head. “And leave behind your kikay kit. We need to travel light.”

While applying some last minute sunscreen to his scalp, I overheard Rovilson chanting in mantra-like fashion, “I cannot lose to Jon Hall, I cannot lose to Jon Hall.”  I could guess how Rovi was feeling at that moment – that no other musclebound, almost hairless, alpha-male, loverboy sex magnet deserved to win this race except for him.  I felt exactly the same way as Rovi did, except for being an almost hairless loverboy.  We knew we had to win versus our ersatz doppelgangers because our egos were on the line.  We knew we had to win because a nuclear-powered cell phone was at stake.  And we knew we had to win because we might become Samsung’s possible product endorsers.

As the other teams made a mad dash for the starting line, our four-man team started this race the best way we knew how: We strutted off to the banyo for a bladder break. What can I say? The race organizers served a lot of iced tea during breakfast. And I believe it is better to relieve our bladders voluntarily before the race than involuntarily during the race. Besides, if these teams had watched as much Amazing Race episodes as I did, they would know that there is no need to rush: The organizers would make sure that we would all be let out of the starting line at the same time. So after furiously scrubbing away our facial oil with blotting paper, we confidently strode towards the starting line expecting a volley of photographs to snap our way. But instead, we were met by a really pissed-off games master.

 “Where did you guys go!?” the games master screamed, “You’re the last team out of the starting line!  They all have a head start on you!”

Oh no. Had we pissed away Rovi’s chance to redeem himself?

“Marc, why did you abandon me?” Rovi dropped his folically-bereft head onto his palms, “I promised you I would read up on my geography.”

This race was off to a great start. 

Next column: Part 2 of Amazing Grazed and Rovi’s road towards reality tv show redemption.