Astron's Notebook

Hello, Friends!

As the Airport Express approached Kowloon Station, I cast my boyfriend, Chris, a nervous look. We had just arrived back from Beijing and I was to jump right into the Mr. Gay Hong Kong pictorials at the W Hotel in Tsim Sha Tsui. I had butterflies in my stomach - a mixture of excitement and nervous anticipation.

Would the candidates get along? Would we have more dropouts? Will pictorials go smoothly?

Noel wasn't picking his phone up, which made me even more nervous. He must just be busy, I thought, deciding to ring Joe, instead. Joe Lam, publisher of Dim Sum Magazine, is Mr. Gay Hong Kong's resident stylist.

"Hi, Joe. It's James," I greet him.

"James Gabbana!" Joe greeted me back boisterously, referring to the butchered pronunciation of my family name at the recent Hong Kong Lesbian & Gay Film Festival fundraiser.

I sigh with relief and laugh at the inside joke. Joe sounded like he was in good spirits, so the pictorials must be going well.

"I'm almost at the W Hotel," I say.

"OK, I'll send someone to come down and pick you up," he promised.

After about three minutes of waiting in the lobby, my attention is caught by the pinging of the lift. I turn around and see Noel coming out of the lift with a big smile. I am instantly reassured.

"We're almost done," he beams, "ahead of schedule. We're finished with the pool shots and the bedroom photos. We've only got the head shots left to do, and then we're done."

We share a hug, after which he quickly gives me a briefing on the elevator ride up to the suite where pictorials were being held.

"One boy has quit," Noel says matter-of-factly.

"What?!" I exclaim.

"He had issues with the pictorial. We had a good conversation about it. He doesn't feel as though he's ready for it."

"Wow..." I exhale. "We've got nothing to say to that...."

As the doors open to the suite, I am greeted by a beautiful sight. The suite was huge, and I see that W's staff had graciously prepared a snack trolley for the team - replete with water, orange juice, coffee and some fresh cut fruits. Later, more coffee and cookies would be sent up to us.

"Hi guys!" I greet everyone. All the candidates looked very good. Robin Lomas, Senior Stylist at Paul Gerrard Hair+Beauty, was trimming 's Rick's hair. Van Tengga, our young photographer, was taking Jason's head shot. Gilbert was sprawled on a beanie, reading a magazine. Billy was by the window, also reading. Joe and a friend were playing a game of checkers. In the adjacent room, Lata Pamnani, our make-up expert, was finishing up on Ziggy, who held up two shirts. "Black or white?"

"Black," I reply without much hesitation. "I like the sequins on the shirt. Nice texture."

Noel immediately drew my attention to the sheaf of papers he was holding up. "Jamesy, have a look at my designs for the Grand Finale."

While we went over Noel's drafts, I my eyes are drawn towards the handsome young man playing checkers with Joe. "That's him," Noel nodded quietly towards the boy's direction. Noel showed me some of the boy's photos from the poolside pictorial earlier in the day (the boys wore sexy swimming trunks from Private Structure), and they were, indeed, stunning.

"What a waste that he has quit," I thought to myself. Still, joining Mr. Gay Hong Kong takes extraordinary commitment - a decision that must be well-formed within each individual candidate. "Maybe next year, or the year after," I shrug with a smile towards Noel. We're not giving up on that boy.

"Staff photos," Van yelled.

I groaned, checking my appearance in the mirror. I had "airplane travel" written all over me - a frumpy sweatshirt, unstyled hair, face unshaven, and dry skin from a premature winter in Beijing. Nonetheless, I jumped in front of Van's camera. Meanwhile, Noel asked Lata to dust some make-up on his face. "Not fair," I yell. Still, Van clicked away. He got my shot within five frames.

The final shot Van had to take was the candidates' group photo. Decked in stylish Spy Henry Lau shirts and black H&M trousers, the boys looked like real gentlemen - stars. I was beaming with pride. After Van got his shot, Joe announced: "That's a wrap!"

Noel gathered the candidates and the production team around for a meeting. His first order of business was explaining one candidates' departure, which Noel did very frankly. "You're all here out of your own will and we're very happy to welcome yo to the fold. However, now that we have begun this journey, perhaps you realize how serious it is. Next week will be our Press Party. A lot of attention will be focused on you guys."

"Which makes your commitment to join this pageant even more remarkable," I rejoin. "There's a lot of time involved in the preparations, and we'll need an extraordinary amount of patience from you."

"The shoot went very well today," Joe shared. "No drama."

"Which is a big kudos to you, guys. You did a terrific job," Robin stressed.

On that note, we ended the day. We tidied up the suite and said our Thank You to Ms. Ellen So, W's superb Duty Manager. Noel, Joe, Van and myself piled into a cab back to Central, carrying shopping bags overflowing with clothes from the day's shoot. More light and laughter ensue inside the taxi until we all get dropped off on Queen's Road.

Two days later, I receive an e-mail from CNN requesting for the candidates' photos for a special Mr. Gay Hong Kong article on CNNGo.com.

This flight has departed. There's no turning back.



With Affection,
Astron

Hello, Friends!

I recently performed at the fund raising party for the Hong Kong Lesbian & Gay Film Festival (HKLGFF), which is organized by my good friend, Dim Sum Magazine publisher, Joe Lam.

I wondered, "How bad could it be to kit out my vocal chords yet again?"

The last time I sang in front of an audience was at my sister Teri's wedding. But that doesn't count because friends and relatives are practically obliged to be appreciative. Or else.

So I told Joe I'd be happy to do it.

Joe had the wonderful idea to make me sing pop hits, but to twist the gender references in the lyrics to suit the occasion. Fortunately, Peter Lally, my 70 year-old pianist, was adamant that he'd only play standards. (Obviously, obstinacy came with age.) Peter got his way. Lucky for me because I like singing standards, anyway. I couldn't imagine myself singing "Bleeding Love" or "Disturbia."

The soiree was held at the super swanky Kee Club. Marc David, who runs the club, explained early on that the in-house sound system wasn't built to support live musical acts. There weren't any provisions for an equalizer suitable for singing; neither did Peter have the jack needed to link the keyboard to the speakers. 



"Are you nervous?" Chris stroked my hand.

"No," I slowly sipped from my glass of pinot grigio, enjoying Kee's house pour. "I'm done being nervous. I just wanna sing now."

And then Dean and Dan Caten (of dsquared fame) arrived.

"James, you're on in two minutes," Bryan Chan (a.k.a. Coco Pop) yelled above the din.

I emptied my glass of wine in one swig.
 


I sang "Someone To Watch Over Me," "Dream A Little Dream," "Can't Take My Eyes Off Of You," and "Come Fly With Me."

Listening back to yourself is always a pain. There are always things you wish you could have done differently.

But I'm happy (relieved, really) that the crowd was hospitable enough and seemed to go along for the ride.



With Affection,
Astron

Hello, Friends!

Chris and I were scheduled to ascend Taiwan's highest peak, Yushan, in the first two weeks of of November. That is, before a recent barrage of storms battered the island and wiped the nature trails away. Ignorant to the fact that our travel itinerary has been thrown in limbo, Chris decided to whip me into shape for what he had planned to be several days of trail walking in Taiwan.

Our warm-up walk was the popular Dragon's Back, "only" eight kilometers long. Peanuts, I told myself. I cycle twice that distance in the gym while watching Kylie Kwong's cooking show.


When we got to the starting point, I was encouraged by a smiling cartoon of a dragon on a signpost.

It was deceptive.

The trail began with meandering ascents and descents, which alternated very quickly. There were far too many steps, instead of gentle slopes. Within five minutes, I had a side stitch. Within ten minutes, my quads were burning. It didn't help that, along the way, we encountered a lot of geriatrics who seemed to be having an easier time than myself. "Excuse me," said an old timer, as he sped ahead of me.

"Stop," I pleaded, grabbing Chris as we reached one of the peaks. "Rest, please."

"Okay," he acquisced, leading me to a wooden bench. He dug into his backpack and energetically attacked a sandwich. I tried to eat, too, knowing full well that my body needed the energy. But my throat, parched raw from huffing and puffing, didn't quite take to swallowing dry bread. I finished my bottle of Gatorade, instead.


The view from the peak was exhilarating. I've grown accustomed to overcrowded high rises and the metronomic hum of construction where we live, in Sheung Wan. But up there was so much space. I would happily drag the next person who complains that, "Hong Kong is so small!" up to Dragon's Back.

Still, I was quietly proud that we finished the walk in two hours, which was half an hour shorter than Chris' book, "Hiking All In One," suggests.

As we approached the end of the trail, we were welcomed by the smell of meats gently grilling over charcoal. "Yum," I inhaled, my tummy grumbling from not having had breakfast.

"Lunch now or later?" Chris cocked an eyebrow at me as I eyed the meats hungrily.

"Later," I replied, forcing myself to walk away. The beach beckoned. Big Wave Bay - the reward at the end of the trail.



Leaving the camera on timer sucks. Unknowing folks innocently enter your frame, and you are not quite sure, either, when the shot has finally been taken.

Chris and I ended up having fish and chips at the beach because I was too lazy to make the walk back up to the barbecue place. Beside us, a couple of beautiful Eurasian kids tucked into sloppy cheese burgers. The boys' father, a skinny Frenchman, quietly chewed on a chicken wrap, while the mum, a waifish Chinese, daintily nibbled on pork skewers from the barbecue place. The aroma of the meat's charred goodness taunted me as I dutifully did my best to ignore the happy family. I proceeded to drown my big, fat chips in ketchup and hungrily dug in. 

Unlike South Bay Beach and Middle Bay, there were hardly any Speedos in Big Wave Bay. Board shorts were de rigueur. There were gay boys around, to be sure, but even they had been pragmatic enough to observe the beach's culture. In my teeny Arena swimming trunks, I collapsed onto my beach towel in embarrassment.

The pressure in my left ear started to bug me. "I'm going for a dip," I told Chris, hoping that the salt water would help ease the dull ache.

Powerful waves and tiny swimming trunks don't go together. The curls would hurl me forward, my rubbery legs providing little support. As the heavy tides retreated back, I'd be pulled into the water once again and dooown my swimming trunks would go. I needed both hands to keep the waistband up, lest I expose myself unnecessarily to the hordes of squealing kids.

When I finally made it out of the water, I flopped in a heap onto my towel.

"Let's leave soon," I pleaded, trying not to sound too much like a baby about the pressure in my ear and my sore head.

We passed by a chemist for some ear drops on our way home.

"I had no idea you were feeling so poorly," Chris apologized, administering the medicine while I lay limply, like overcooked pak choy, on the couch.

"I was okay when we started," I reassured him feebly. "I was excited to do the walk."

However, I might have bitten off more than I can chew. After several recent occasions when I've had to wear stilettos, putting on a pair of trail walking shoes on a proper nature hike - for "only" eight kilometers - shocked my system so badly.

The next Friday saw Chris and myself faced with another sort of Dragon's Back - the cocktail kind.


My friend, Phil Oakden, General Manager of the gorgeously restored Marine Police Headquarters - renamed "Hullett House" - graciously invited us for a pre-opening dinner at "The Parlour," a restaurant within the new design-led heritage hotel. The drink was a delicious poison of muddled dragon fruit and lime, topped up with champagne. It glowed from within, like dragon's breath. Before Chris and I knew it, we had had three each of the potent elixir. And by the end of our delicious dinner, Hullett House's Graphic Designer, Alvin Cheng, had convinced us to down a couple more shots each of Jack Daniels. These, on top of the red wine we enjoyed with our mains and the dessert wine we had with our lemon merengue. 

"Just make sure you can still walk after this," Chris warned me before Alvin and I threw the last bit of caution to the wind.

By the time the three of us made it to Volume for the "Vegas, My Ass" event, my mind had thankfully adapted the memory of a fish. I had blissfully lost all recollection of the events that happened next.

"I just saw James walk by with a look of thunder on his face," Justin told Chris.

I don't know how, or what time, Chris and I got home. But when I woke up the next morning, my hair was still unwashed and my contact lenses were still glued onto my corneas. Noel and Rai gleefully briefed me on my monstrous transformation the night before.

Apparently, I myself, had turned into a dragon.


With Affection,
Astron

Hello, Friends!


Thursday

The afternoon's string of meetings came with the requisite caffeine loading - a glass of iced lemon tea after a tall mocha frappucino after a shot of espresso. I am happily bouncing off the walls when I finally meet Chris in Pacific Place at 7PM. We give each other a perfunctory kiss, mindful of the peak hour mall crowd. "I'm caffeinated," I confess, my eyes as wide as saucers. Chris, ever so wise, leads me straight to the concession stand. "This should slow you down a bit," he cheerfully thrusts a Corona towards me. Beer in hand, we proceed to our seats in House 5.

The movie opens with a scene showing a comely French lass hanging linen out to dry. This is followed by a tableau of two men engaged in what looks like a social call over milk and cigar. The chapter ends unceremoniously with German soldiers gleefully raining bullets down the floorboard to masscre a Jewish family hiding in the basement.

My system selectively forgets about the bottle of beer I just had. I tremble in my seat, the afternoon's caffeine deposit promptly re-activated. Welcome to "Inglorious Basterds."
"A fine piece of filmmaking!" Chris enthuses as we make our way out of the cinema.

I keep quiet, my thoughts marinating in a thick stew of wink-nudge references: good, old Westerns; Spanish surrealism; Hitchcock, for crying out loud; comics-to-celluloid flicks; and even apocalyptic Hollywood movies. "Inglorious Basterds" is a droll observation on the history of cinema. My inner nerd is sufficiently satisfied.

"I was waiting for a flashback explaining the scar around Brad Pitt's neck," I muse as the tram merrily ambles along Des Veoux Road.

"Hm," Chris considers. "Did we miss it?"

"No; it was never explained."

"Maybe it doesn't mean anything."


Saturday

The previous night saw me battling a debilitating bout against a stomach bug, culminating in a midnight rush to the Queen Mary Hospital in Pokfulam. Vomiting, diarrhea, and fever are never fun. Hence, my disposition today is in stark contrast to my state of overcaffeination a couple of days ago.

I lift the arm rest between Chris's seat and mine and I rest my head against his shoulder. I fall into a blissful state of half-sleep as movie trailers parade one after another. No matter; I am soon jolted awake by a sticky lick of house music. "Brüno" has arrived. I scoot closer towards Chris. Heck, we're watching "Brüno," not The Ten Commandments. Who is going to take issue with two grown, consenting men having a snuggle? 

Sacha Baron Cohen is a vision as a vacuous, bottle blond, celebrity wannabe. I am instantly reminded of the reality "star," Heidi Montag, who, despite a clear absence of any discernible talent, manages to ingratiate her presence into our lives. They're so alike, they could pass for twins:



Brüno is mostly a light romp through the perfumed garden of homophobia. Perfumed, because there's nothing controversial here, really. If there's any doubt left that the LGBT community's fight for equality is the civil rights movement of our time, one just has to look towards the residual chatter about Prop 8, Alexis Arquette, and yes, the Mormons. As Madonna says, "I've heard it all before, I've heard it all before, I've heard it all before." The laughs come freely because the movie plays for it.

In the end, Brüno is an OD akin to "carbicide." It sends you on a heady sugar high, and then drops you down to carb hell faster than an elevator gone amok. And as all self respecting gay men know, flabby arms and a distended waistline are fates worse than death.

The movie ends with a gay version of "We Are the World," with Brüno dressed up as a Victoria's Secret Angel. With Elton John on the piano, of course.



With Affection,
Astron

Hello, Friends!



FINDS' affable Restaurant Manager, Rico Mario Haus, conducted a blind wine tasting this afternoon to sharpen the team's knowledge.

We tasted a total of eight wines and nibbled Jaakko's yummy sourdough in between to cleanse our palates.

Among the winners was Laurence of Margaret River's Cabernet Merlot (Australia 2004). It has a brilliant ruby hue and a delightfully effervescent nose of berries. The tannins in the Cabernet provide a definitive but gentle structure, while the Merlot highlights a rich, plummy softness. When Rico peeled off the silver foil to reveal the bottle, we oohed at its unusual curvaceousness and at the rendition of scarlet blooms in sumptuous acrylic.

"It's a hit at weddings," Rico shared. No surprise there. The bottle alone can make any table look instantly prettier, I thought.

Not all wines we tasted were winners, though.

"Smells like poppers!" Kaisla grimaced upon sniffing wine #4. I peered at Jaakko's tasting notes and he had succinctly scribbled, "Yuk."

The conversation then segued to amorous affairs in Amsterdam and torrid trysts in Tuen Mun - the common denominator being accidental popper spills and the ensuing journey to lofty heights.

"Kills millions of brain cells in such a short amount of time," Rico dimpled handsomely while pouring the next wine. 

And there, I wondered, why oenophilia hadn't inspired a more refined topic.

"It's Monday," Kaisla pointed out.


With Affection,
Astron
 

Hola, Amigas!




"Eighteen?!" Tiara Ferrari shrieked. "She looks like she's forty!"

And thus began a fanfare of fiery "F" words flung at the TV set as a gaggle of drag queens witnessed the frightening finish of Miss Universe 2009.

The morning started out promisingly enough. The infamously fickle Hong Kong weather cooperated to gather a coterie of the territory's most flamboyant creatures into Chiquitta's fabulous flat. We fortified our bodies with a fantastic breakfast of fresh fruit juices, fried rice, eggs and dried beef tapas. Fortunately, we enjoyed the food and had our fill - from there, it all went downhill.

The pageant, broadcast live by Star World at 9AM local time, unleashed a flurry of fervent feelings from an admittedly fussy faction who quite enjoys finding fault, starting with:


Frugality
I, Fabiola, together with Chiquitta, stayed up all night watching opening numbers from previous editions of Miss Universe. Our particular favourite was Trinidad & Tobago in 1999. We were rightfully hoping to enjoy the full force of Caribbean fortitude in the Bahamas. Sadly, this year's telecast failed. Chiquitta could not get past the budget bikinis that didn't match. She was especially bothered after I had intimated that the girls had actually worn Oscar de la Renta swimsuits in 1999.

We know that a penny saved is a penny earned, but queens don't wanna save no drama for nobody's mama!


Fury
Facebook felt the infinite impact of faggot fury after the Asian shutout in the Top 15. Tiara, who was mincing around the living room in Miss Japan's national costume, was particularly peeved. We descended on our computers with vitriolic status updates, wondering how neither the judges nor Donald Trump saw it fit to honour even one of our fierce Asian sisters.

We're aware that life's not always fair. But with nine Europeans in the semifinals, it might as well have been a family affair.


Fluster
We were flabbergasted, flummoxed and floored how an entity known as Hedi Montag is somehow an entertainer. How did this pitiful female, who can't even dance to the beat of her own song, end up onstage? When did Flo Rida and his gang of denim loving urchins, become worthy of the Miss Universe coronation night? Kelly Rowland was fabulous but - bless her - her vocals were less than stellar at the telecast. She was perpetually at the precipice of cracking. Partying, Atlantis-style, clearly has a peculiar paradigm.

There's no business like show business, but too many skunks in a lawn party have made this pageant an unqualified comedy.





Farce
When South Africa and France failed to fit into the final five, two of my friends started washing dishes. Mimi and Miro each claimed a couch on which to go back to sleep. I, Fabiola, kept the faith and rendered a running commentary to all who were still interested whilst the girls paraded down the runway for one last look. One side of the room was rooting for Australia, whilst I, Fabiola, knew with absolute certitude that the Dominican Republic would win.

We know how this one ends: Venezuela wins, and a roomful of high heeled Hong Kong hotties hurl invectives towards the TV screen.

Miss Venezuela fashioned herself a femme fatale in a film noir. Sadly, this movie's climax is notable not for the lead female's beauty, but for the plot line's incongruity: A gun which we've never seen before was preposterously fired to claim the ultimate victory.

A drag queen ain't always right on the money. But what's the story when the crown wont sit still on the head of a honey?


 
Let the peanuts fly!



I Remane,
Fabiola
xoxo

Hello, Friends



I like to write because I can express the breathtaking flight of a grand jeté without the physical commitment, without the technical demands of ballet, without the fear of an injury.

I like to write because I can express the dangerously gut wrenching intervals of "Summertime" without the emotional investment, without the requisite operatic agility, without fear of a possibly hostile audience.

I like to write because I can express the tactile rendition of a Buddhist monk's saffron robe without needing to hold a paintbrush, without enslaving myself to the immediacy of light and shadow, without the fear of speculation in the art market.

I like to write because I find that words are easier to mould than muscles. I find that stories are easier to sustain than high notes. I find that paragraphs are easier to strike than sweeping brush strokes.

I like to write because I like permanence. I am much too intimidated by the build-and-destroy nature of live performance, or by the confrontational nature of visual art. A confrontation lives in the present, which just a second later, becomes the past. I like the benign appearance of words on a page.

I like to write because I am enslaved by my mistakes, my shortcomings, my omissions. I like to write because I can edit myself without having to swallow my pride.    
 
I like to write because I am electrified by fleeting thoughts. I am perpetually seduced by a torturous game of hide-and-seek with meanings that hide around a turn of a phrase.

I like to write because I like the structure of sentences.

I like to write because I require control.

I'd like to write and lose control.



With Affection,
Astron



To Chris, to sun soaked afternoons at the beach. There never was a bigger star that touched me.

Hello, Amigas!

My name is Fabiola, a creation of Hong Kong's drag superstarlet, Chiquitta. On 22 July 2009, Volume, Hong Kong's friendlest gay bar, was to host a birthday party for my "twin brother," James. Jamesey was feeling yucky from the inevitability of getting older, so he needed a shot of fabulous. He had the novel idea of inhibiting himself from his own birthday party via a Pink Prom Parade - an opportunity for boys who love boys to dress up like girls who love boys.

Jamesey was a doddering mess. He didn't have a clue about nipping and tucking bits and pieces that needed to be hidden, nor did he have an inkling about shopping and hopping for what were to be my bare essentials. Shoes left him confused; hair gave him despair. However, with a fair amount of Chiquitta's fairy dust, Jamesey's blues transformed into Fabiola's woo-hoos!

I, Fabiola, who am aware that wishes wont wash dishes, have now taken destiny into my own hands. Boredom is unacceptable! Variety is the spice of life! And although Jamesey wont let me out as often as I want because the dishes ~do~ need washing (and the floors, and the laundry, and... ugh!), I have learned a few things along the way which I am happy to share with you.

Welcome to my parlour!

 

5 Mane Lessons From Fabiola the Fabulous

An af-hair to remember

1. Of Mice and Mane
There's no use leading a dog's life - much less, a rodent's. So what's the point of being holed up at home, doing nothing, when you can be out and about, being fabulous? Unfortunately, being out and about do not guarantee fun because you carry the burden of people's perception of you, therefore, you interact with them in the same perfunctory ways. Solution? Wigs! Put one on and your troubles are hair today, gone tomorrow! 

Maybe Gaga onstage with VJ Lisa

2. No Mane, No Gain
It's hot under a wig. You feel feverish the moment you walk out of your flat. And then you perspire profusely once you get into a crowded club. Sure, any sort of crowd makes way for a drag queen like the Red Sea parts upon Moses's command. But even that is little consolation when it starts getting sticky and itchy under your wig. You grit your teeth in martyrdom as the wig's elastic bites down on your forehead, all the way around, mercilessly scraping the baby hairs at your nape upwards. Still, you grin and bear it. Why? Because a drag queen makes grown men whimper, weep, and wet. Because a drag queen gets her way. Because a drag queen is worshiped.

 

Tiara Ferrari in the "kitchen"

3. The Mane Dish

It takes time to cook a look. And more than just a garnish on a dish, a wig is the ultimate drag flourish. Chiquitta shares that she never quite embodies a persona until she puts on her crowning glory. I, Fabiola, agree. And that's why I personally begin creating a look by deciding on what my hair is going to look like. Get thee to Pottinger Street or to The Lanes in Central! Or if you are so compelled by a hypnotic desire, to the drag equivalent of Willy Wonka's Chocolate Factory - Sham Shui Po! Have you got your golden ticket? Get cooking!     

 

Fabiola & Chiquitta a la Lady Gaga

4. A Kodak Momane

Pose for posterity. Drag is all about changing things up, about being exciting, about being the same - but different. Chiquitta browses her photos before her every appearance to make sure that she serves up something new, and I, Fabiola, admonish you to do the same. What will it be? Perhaps a new hairstyle. Perhaps a new dress. Perhaps a new BFF, natch. And before you step out, remember to put the Cybershot to werq! 

 

Fabiola in fluxe
 

5. Separate the Mane from the Boys
Wearing fake hair, whether long, short curly or straight, truly separates the men from the boys. Are you man enough to be brave? Are you man enough to explore your fantasies? And are you man enough to own up to your deepest desires? 

All mane are not created equal. So differentiate, appreciate, celebrate!



I Remane,
Fabiola
xoxo

Hello, Friends!



I always thought that I'd like to go quietly - maybe die under a tree while reading a book. But after watching Cory's funeral on You Tube, I was attacked with a case of "Keeping up with the Joneses." Or more aptly, "Keeping up with the Procopios."

"P" is not a sexy letter. "W" is. In fact, a popular boutique hotel chain is named after it. "V" is. That's why the blue pill is called Viagra. "X" is a sexy letter, of course. So sexy, in fact, it's almost vulgar. And "Y" is so sexy, the Village People sang an entire song about it. Yet, as I shamelessly bawled because I accidentally rubbed my eyes after chopping red chillies, it struck me how many sort of P's were present to make Cory's funeral unequivocally significant, starting with:

1. Pinoys - The Manila Cathedral was stuffed with priests, politicians and the proletariat. "P" is also for the Philippine Philharmonic Orchestra, which ensured that every gut wrenching moment was accompanied by soaring music.

2. Piety - It was a pageant of epic proportions. The ceremony was rightfully grandiose, as befits the grand dame who lay in the casket. Every Pinoy milestone is marked with some sort of invocation to a higher being because we, Pinoys, feel - nay, believe, and submit ourselves accordingly to - the hand of the divine. Plus, prayer validates everything. Period.

3. Pain - The highlight of the funeral mass - who are we kidding? - was Kris Aquino's eulogy. To have Kris up on the pulpit emotionally articulate our collective sense of loss was a privilege. I would have cried some more, if I only had more red chillies to chop.

4. Piolo - I don't know how or why, but Pinoy heartthrob Piolo Pascual somehow made it to the roster of principal vocalists at Cory's funeral, which included the formidable likes of Lea Salonga, Dulce, and young Sarah Geronimo. A Pinoy extravaganza is never complete, after all, without the requisite celebrity wattage. Or two. Or three. Still, Zsazsa Padilla's rendition of "Hindi Kita Malilimutan" reduced me to a blubbering mess. Ah, the appeal to emotion just never ends, and who am I to repudiate it?

5. People Power - The mass of Pinoys that poured onto the streets to escort Cory's cortege was reminiscent of People Power.

Cory suffered the incarceration of her husband, whose subsequent assasination was played and replayed on national television. To understand how Pinoys feel about Cory, one need not look further than toward Kris Aquino's more contemporary example. Pinoys have journeyed with Kris down to the depths of chlamydia, domestic abuse, and failed relationships with men of questionable integrity. We love Kris in the same way we love Nora Aunor, Ate Shawie and Juday - we have together completed a passage from suffering to redemption.

Pinoys know all about suffering. In fact, we invented it. Like prayer, suffering validates everything. Suffering imbues our commonest desires with nobility. If one has suffered enough for something, then one would be rightfully deserving of it. This is our sense of rectitude. And this is what brings us out of our homes and onto the streets. Let it be a warning to anyone arrogant enough to impair our sense of national liberty!!!

At the point where Martin Nievera and Regine Velasquez sing "The Prayer," I am openly weeping. I put You Tube on pause to grab a bag of potato chips from the kitchen before I re-activate the clip. And then I resume crying.

***

I feel so silly, sobbing in front of my computer with my headphones on. I wonder if I'm crying only because I see other people cry. Am I a fraud? Am I being laughably impressionable? I grew up in Tuguegarao, 12 hours away by bus from Manila. Even though my pareants were staunch Cory supporters, all the neighbours were Marcos loyalists. It didn't make a difference to me or my playmates, then. I don't even have a memory of EDSA because...

I stop dead in my tracks.

I had just learnt to write my name in 1986.

I missed out.

I'm crying because I'm a spoiled, selfish brat who hasn't had to fight for anything. Ever. Except occasionally for the attention of a cute boy.

I'm crying because I am in Hong Kong and I suddenly feel awful about being much, too preoccupied with becoming a global Pinoy citizen. It's as though I went clubbing with my friends but left my friends harriedly when I hooked up with that cute boy.

I wipe my tears resolutely. I can't help having been born in the 80's, and it's useless to regret the decisions I've made because what's done is done. Thankfully, I'm still with the cute boy, and two years after we hooked up, he still looks hot as hell.

I take a deep breath.

"P" wasn't a sexy letter before. But thanks to Tita Cory, it is now.

6. Party - This is why I left home, this is what I take immense pleasure in, and this is what I'm meant to do well.

And when it's time for me to go, by gad - I will keep up with the Procopios! I'll make plans for my loved ones to celebrate out on the streets streets in a pink display of Pinoy Pride Parade! 
 

With Affection,
Astron

Hello, Friends!


"Halloooooooo!" Noel bellowed.

"Hm..." I mumbled back into my phone, squinting at the alarm clock to check the time. 9PM.

"Whyyy are you not heeere?" he whined. "We're all heeere!

"I'm taking a nap," I snapped.

"Why? Are you a nap-kin? Kekekekeke!"

I groaned at his Swiss humour.

"I'll be there in an hour," I grumbled, getting myself out of bed.

***

Tivo's Gay Tea Dance on the first Sunday of every month has become something of a social affair. Tourists hear about it, locals flock to it, and provocative events happen within it.

"Some people should be scared," a friend sang, reviewing the contents of his camera.



It's the sort of hedonistic happening encouraged only by carnivalesque vision. In this case, the vision was of Paul and Ian in glorious Barbie drag - Paul was "Sporty Barbie" in a criminally short tartan tutu that revealed his nether cheeks, whilst Ian was "Beach Barbie," replete with floral flip flops and ginormous sunnies.

"Where'd you get the hair?" I whispered in awe as I fingered Sporty Barbie's extra-long, deluxe locks.

"I stitched it together myself from two wigs," she confessed.

Just then, three bartenders pushing a heavy cart of beer down Wyndham Street stopped dead in their tracks to gawk at the flamboyant sight. Sporty Barbie and Beach Barbie, always eager to please, jumped up on the bar to pose for obligatory photos.

The boys not only snapped photos, but humped both Barbies' legs, grabbed their tits, and pulled their lips down for sloppy kisses.



The sexual abuse was a delicious sight to behold.

***

As DJ Angus spun the gang of google-eyed guys into a sweaty mess, he complained, "The boys only dance to the tracks they are familiar with."

"Shut up; you're doing a great job," I scolded. Soon enough, a swarthy Jamaicain tourist clambered up the DJ console to rub against Angus.

I smiled with satisfaction.

"Here," I said, reaching up to feed him some of my pizza.

I've never had a "breakfast" of pizza and margaritas before. But unusual occasions inspire unusual decisions.

***

I rolled my eyes as I saw The Twink get up on the bar and dance like a gigolo.

"He's from Kent, luv," Simon explained, as though The Twink's provenance justified his behaviour.

When The Twink finally got down after exhausting the crowd's attention, he sidled up to Noel and tried to make hooky. Noel expertly deflected the attention and subsequently made another of his infamous, fat, French exits.

"It was the perfect time for me to go... I love him..." Noel messaged me. I knew whom he meant, and my heart swelled with joy for my good friend. The Swiss tend to be methodical. Practical. Neutral. "Love" is never merely an impulse. It's a long process. I could not have been happier for Noel.

Besides, The Twink had already swooped down his next victim - a new arrival in Hong Kong - whom he was gleefully bathing with his tongue, slammed against the back wall close to Tivo's kitchen.

***

My t-shirt, a purchase from Chatuchak Market three years ago, was a hit with the boys.



***

"I'm in love, James. How am I going to see him again?" Phil wailed.

"We'll find him for you," I said soothingly, trying to recall what the object of Phil's affection looked like. After two bottles of Veuve Clicquot, it was practically impossible to do any recalling.

"Champagne is the finest form of alcohol," Simon pontificated. "Phyllis, the youth of today need champagne," he barked, gesturing towards me and The Twink.

The Twink shook his head. I wrinkled my nose. We couldn't drink any more.

At 4AM - I was shocked to discover - we finally closed Tivo and crawled our way home.


With Affection,
Astron

Hello, Friends!

I was a weepy, drippy mess, with nothing to wipe my snot with except the sleeves of my white t-shirt.

It all started when my childhood friend, BJ, urged me to type the search words "Kris Aquino The Buzz Cory Coverage" on You Tube. The Buzz, the premiere showbiz talk show in the Philippines, had an exclusive interview with Kris about her mom, Cory's, final days.

To the uninitiated, "Cory" is Corazon Aquino, who deposed dictator Ferdinand Marcos via a People Power revolution, thereby becoming the Philippines's first woman president and a beloved icon of democracy.



Kris Aquino is Cory's perplexing phenomenon of a daughter. At 14, she immersed herself into show business. To the consternation of critics, Kris become the country's most bankable TV host; her name alone is box office insurance in Philippine movies; and she has earned gazillions in product endorsements from the likes of McDonald's, Nestlé, San Miguel, et cetera.

Kris can credit her success to her "transparency." She habitually serves her personal life for public consumption, her coup de grace being an exposé on an erstwhile lover - a city mayor who was also a popular actor - who gave her chlamydia.

The country was stunned.

Kris then used the momentum to score a lucrative campaign for Gynepro, a vaginal antiseptic.

It was a stroke of genius.

In the aftermath of Cory's death, Kris once again held the populace in thrall as she dramatically painted a portrait of a grieving daughter on the tremulous eve of a nation's upheaval. It was her greatest performance yet. She must have cried in a hundred different ways, exhausting drama history's library of lamentation. It was a tour de force drenched in pathos, designed to melt the hardest of skeptics.

Even I was convinced - until BJ revealed that Kris has dibs on playing Cory in an upcoming biopic.

It was then that I noticed Kris's diamond studded Chanel Haute Joaillerie earrings, the drop of pearl on which danced merrily as Kris's shoulders shook in emotion.

Kris Aquino scores again.




With Affection,
Astron

Hello, Friends!


Breakfasts are a tricky affair when one is traveling. You're bound to miss the hotel breakfast buffet which finishes at 11AM because you're likely to sleep in. You're then left with no choice except to venture out into the wide unknown. City guides often review dinner deals around town, rarely breakfasts. So if you want something more than coffee and toast, you're pretty much left to your own devices.

Chris and I are both big on breakfast. If he could eat eggs, bacon and potatoes every day, he would. I, on the other hand, simply need food to function. Otherwise, I'm grumpy and am useless company throughout the day.

Our first breakfast together in Bangkok brought us to the Old German Beerhouse (Sukhumvit Soi 11) which advertised an American Breakfast for only B99.



It was a meager plate of food served with thin coffee, sweet orange juice, and white toast. The bacon was decidedly of the processed variety, which had shrunk to bitter, powdery crisps by the time it was served. I couldn't imagine any healthy American being at all pleased, much less satisfied, with the offering.

"It's a very Sukhumvit version of an American breakfast," Chris remarked.

I didn't entirely understand what he meant, although I suspected that it might have had something to do with Americans' reciprocal idea of Asian cuisine consisting of little more than rice and noodles. Culinary stereotyping exists cross-culturally.

We returned to Sukhumvit Suites after breakfast. We neither had the will nor the energy to do anything else before we had to meet Chris's friends, Eck and Bert, for lunch.

***

The next day, I decided to consult online sources for suggestions. A forum on ThaiVisa.com contained a discussion thread on breakfast in Bangkok, which brought us to Gulliver's Travelers Tavern (Sukhumvit Soi 5).



Gulliver's was a faux colonial affair with an outdoor area furnished with wrought iron tables and chairs. "Very Disney," I observed. The menu offered a full English for B170. As always, Chris asked for poached eggs; I ordered over easy. His eggs came out perfectly; mine were so deeply fried, they might as well have been burger patties.



"The breakfast sausage is funny," Chris chewed. "You can never predict what these things taste like."

I excitedly dug in - I usually like food that Chris doesn't.

In this instance, I agreed with Chris. The sausage had a strangely spongy texture, like a rolled pancake. Still, the beans and the bacon were sufficiently satisfying. The orange juice was pleasantly pulpy, and the coffee was of a decent Italian variety.

We felt brave enough to forge on to Chatuchak Market.

***

Our third and final breakfast in Bangkok brought us to Crepes & Co (Sukhumvit Soi 12). I initially approached the place with some trepidation because blogger Joanna (of The Accidental Epicurean) described the place as "historically the place for breakfast for expats in the know." My sixth trip to Bangkok hasn't exactly improved my impression of farangs.







I changed my mind the moment I walked in. What gay boy is not seduced by oversize umbrellas in a garden setting? Each table in the outdoor area was elevated individually, giving the feeling of privacy and intimacy. The place had an easy, effortless style that I could only compare to La Fenêtre Soleil in Saigon.

Chris and I ordered the breakfast set for B350, a princely sum by Thai standards. I was highly tempted to go for the B490 set, which featured either waffles, pancakes or crepes at the end of the meal. But I resisted, knowing that my eyes are usually hungrier than my belly.

I was relieved that the food measured up to the ambiance, and the service was the best we ever had in Bangkok. Each course was brought in just as we had finished the previous one. It's difficult to be attentive without being intrusive, but the boys at Crepes & Co had mastered the art.

It's been a while since I've seen real sugar cubes served with coffee, and jars of honey offered as sweetener. The fruit juices were all freshly squeezed and the coffee smelt straight out of French bistro. I got buried under a mountainload of side dishes - ham, grilled tomatoes, bacon, fruit... Chris gave up on his mushrooms midway; I rescued him without a second thought.

***

Crepes & Co has been around since 1996, so it had that wonderful, lived-in feel to it. "Even the amount of foliage is just enough," Chris admired approvingly. The neighbouring high rises were artfully concealed by tall palm fronds, while tables were surrounded by clay jars with running water and various floating flora.

Not quite Breakfast at Tiffany's, but who the heck cares about Tiffany's when you're in Sukhumvit? Besides, there's no beating the romance of having breakfast with The One you'd rather have for breakfast:



***

I rarely get my eggs done just the way I want it.

I like my eggs over easy. I like the yolk a perfectly runny golden orange. I carefully slice off the egg white first, which I proceed to drown in ketchup. Without breaking the yolk, I then shovel the entire thing into my mouth. That's how I enjoy my eggs best.

Whilst Chris is in Jakarta, I tried to make an egg the way he wants it: poached.

I am not a chef or a food stylist, just an avid food lover. Still, I had myself convinced that I did a respectable job on my first try.



I've had two, large, boiled eggs for breakfast. But I simply couldn't let my beautiful poached egg go to waste. High cholesterol notwithstanding, the third egg of the day went down my digestive system within seconds.


With Affection,
Astron

Hello, Friends!




Ten hours.

I am astonished as I take off the sturdy high heels that have shod my feet since 5PM the previous day. I suffered for beauty, I remind myself. My feet are a sticky, sweaty mess as I gingerly peel the shoes off. Thank goodness I don't have any sensation left from my knees downward - only blessed numbness. I try to wiggle my toes. I fail.

"That's so you have more respect for people who wear high heels for long hours on end," La Chiquitta clucks gleefully as she begins her transformation back to good, old Rye. A few feet away, on the dining table, Tiara Ferrari is re-arranging the assortment of powders that allowed us to sustain our look and energy throughout the night.

Drag queens are not like Cinderella, I remind myself. For one, glass slippers would collapse underneath the weight of size 11 feet. For another, a midnight curfew is laughable. It is 3AM - a respectable time to be home. But I know for a fact that a few of my drag sisters have gone off to Propaganda to wreak more pink havoc. When we're all made up to look like ladies, curfew is only when cracks in the concealer is revealed by sunshine cracking through the clouds. You can then forget all hope of being rescued by Prince Charming. You'll sooner turn into a wicked witch, warts and all.

"Drink more vodka," Rye barks. "No more," I plead in defeat. It's not like I didn't drink enough at my own birthday party. I did. Additionally, the heat trapped underneath my wig has made me lightheaded. I unclasp the garter at my nape, which has left a fine groove on my forehead. I massage my head to allow blood to circulate normally again.

Thank goodness turning older doesn't require one to become wiser.


***

22 July 2009

I wedge the bedroom door open at 5PM and walk from the side of the bed down the length of the living room. I sigh. My "runway" still isn't long enough for my Top Model strides. I throw the main door open, as well, to extend my stomping all the way down the corridor. It's true what the old drag queens say: Your instincts kick in the moment you wear high heels. No drama involved. You just know how.

"Naomi Cambell, Naomi Campbell, Naomi Campbell," I chant inwardly while Rye is "cooking" his face.

At 6PM, Jason Lai arrives. At 6:30, Dan. Our phones never stop ringing. Noel and Rai arrive at 7PM, bearing stacks of Pringles and litres of water. The "girls" descend on the sustenance like, well, hungry drag queens. "Thank you," I clutch Noel's arm. He hands me a card. "Happy Birthday to a favourite friend," it says. I give Noel a hug.

Tony Moran is blasting full Volume on the speakers.

"Let's watch this DVD," Noel yells over the din, handing me a white sleeve. I take the CD out and pop it into my computer. It's a video of my photos set against a sexy, house music track. "That's for the projector in Volume later," Noel says, his eyes twinkling. It's a wonderful surprise that makes me tear up. Interspersed with images are buzzy words like "freshness," "creativity," "sophistication," "sensuality," "cosmopolitan," and such.

The DVD goes on for quite a while; Noel made it such that it would run the entire night as a wall feature in Volume. But the warmth in my heart slowly turns into suppressed giggles towards the middle of the video. The buzzy adjectives are becoming peculiar: "homely," "good living," "simplicity," "keeping fit," "feeling fresh," "loving your life," "loving your body," et cetera. I suddenly feel like a Stepford wife or a Martha Stewart specimen. I worry: Do I need to start baking cupcakes now?
By 7:30PM, the terrible triumvirate of Paul, Ian and David walk into the door. I am flabbergasted. Ian looks like a two-bit streetwalker with flaming red hair and a fully fringed micro-dress. Paul has a bouffant hairdo a la Marge Simpson and immediately sets about helping Jason, Noel and Rai with their make-up. David is a vision of Disney perfection, replete with blonde locks, silk gloves and a princess purse.

At 8PM, we walk out of the flat and down Hollywood Road.




The cameras begin flashing and seem like a sustained attack of strobe lights from the moment we enter Volume. In a true display of pink poofter power, a total of 17 drag queens make a miraculous apparition. I note with satisfaction that other partygoers are keeping closely with the theme with sundry pink accessories: wigs, shades, necklaces, hats.

"What's your drag name?" DJ Stonedog, Volume's Creative Director, ambushes me.

"I don't know," I squeak in panic. I hadn't even thought about it.

What follows is a flurry of activities and a steady stream of arrivals that keep me up on my feet.


Anita and Daniel hand me a beautiful bouquet of Chupa Chups, which I promptly share with the sugar-hungry assembly. Jason invades Noel's bag to retrieve kilogram upon kilogram of marshmallows, which the crowd greedily grabs off of glass buckets. I am a dizzy mess as I weave my way through the pink madness, distributing platters of drunken lychees and strawberries.


On the decks, my girl, DJ Tina Z (San Francisco), whips the hapless multitude into a cotton candy frenzy. Our brains turn to mush as the music hypnotizes our limbs to move like mere rubbery appendages.

In the VIP section, Ian takes off his dress to reveal pink Aussiebum knickers. Paul kicks his legs up high in the air to invite some friendly intrusion. My pink ladies proudly peel their blouses off to reveal brassieres of different cup sizes and material. The night was ascending into a holy, pink hallucination, and there is nothing I can do to stop it.

There is nothing I want to do to stop it.


I examine the blisters on my feet several hours later as I lay supine on the couch.

"Done," Dan proclaims, all manners of powder having been cleared and stashed back into their respective containers.

"It's gone," Rye sighs dejectedly, finally resigned to the loss of his wallet - just another casualty of a hard party. "There was still $140 in it. I could have used it to buy a couple of good steaks for dinner."

Dan and Rye get up to say their goodbyes to me. I force myself to rise from the couch. Just as I was about to buss them both, I notice a suspicious, white sprinkle on the glass table. I excitedly poke my finger at it for a taste.

"Don't!" Dan interjects.

Just as I thought:

Make-up.



With Affection,
Astron




Post-It 1:

The Pink Prom Parade Gallery in Volume's website!

Post-It 2:
Music Video of The Pink Prom Parade by Noel Furrer

Hello, Friends!


Went shopping for furniture in Ikea yesterday with C.

As is typical, we ended up with some unplanned purchases - namely red lamp shades and a red floor mat to match. But we knew which pieces we really needed to get.

"I think you'd be able to think clearer with a larger desk," I suggested.

When he narrowed it down to the final two choices, he referred to me, "What's your opinion?"

Most of our time in the home superstore was spent calculating space - what fits where. Chris made a simple draft of the study, which we needed to furnish, on his tattered notebook. He would repeatedly look back at it to see how we could possibly fit a new dresser for me, storage for our winter coats, a spare bed for visitors... I carried the measuring tape and would give him the requisite figures when he needed it.

When we were done, we gave each other a light squeeze. He proceeded to the counter to order the bigger pieces we needed delivered; I went to the testing station to make sure the bulbs worked.

He had paid for the swivel chair to be assembled, too. "Maybe I should have paid for everything to be assembled so that you can use it while I'm away," he mused. He was leaving for Yangon the next day.

"I've put things together before," I smiled. "Or, I'll call an all-around handyman to install the new lights and ask him to put the furniture together, too."

A look of amusement crossed his face.

"Where to?" he asked.

"Home," I replied.

"Home it is."




With Affection,
Astron

Hello, Friends!


Have you ever been told never to try to teach a pig to sing? It wastes your time and it annoys the pig.

Have you ever asked for something really important to you and were given the answer, "When pigs fly"?

It seems that not a lot is expected of pigs, really, except to taste good on the dining table. That is to say that a live pig is good, a dead pig is better, and a cooked pig is best.


***


"You PIG!" is by all means derogatory. Anyone who is called such must feel appropriately offended. It's a lot worse than being called "chicken" and only marginally better than being called a "snake."

I get high on eating pork - high cholesterol, high blood pressure, high don't care! Pork, especially when it comes with a fine layer of fat, makes my eyes roll to the back of my head. It's akin to the thrill of a vertical drop - my heart leaps to my throat and, for a second or two, it stops beating. It's a mini cardiac arrest. I get goosebumps from the sheer decadence. Not everyone is so lucky.

Woe be unto us, hypocrites, then, who scorn fellow human beings with "PIG!" on the one hand, and then participate in the orgiastic consumption of pork, on the other hand.

No wonder pigs have struck back via a global pandemic of positively porcine proportions.


***


"We'll never be afflicted with swine flu. It's not glamorous. There's no redemption," Rye pouted prettily.

"Your nose swab tested positive for swine flu," the nurse told me over the phone this morning.

"B-but..." I wanted to protest, "this was something I wasn't meant to get!" I was on the verge of hysteria. Kind of like how people must have felt when news of H1N1 first broke out and along with it, widespread paranoia.

Except I never thought I'd get it

So pigs can fly, and you can teach a pig to sing, after all.


***


When I woke up two days ago with a mild difficulty breathing, some muscle pain and a bit of a fever, I had one motivation to get myself to the clinic:

Prescription painkillers.

But when my temperature registered an alarming 39.2 degrees, I was immediately quarantined. I was escorted by two female nurses and one male nurse who had to make sure that there was a dedicated lift for me, otherwise closed off with the striped "DANGER" tape. I was then dumped into a long-unused consultation room on a virtually deserted floor. There were rust stains on the linoleum left there by tin bins that have since been discarded.

"Wait here for the doctor," one of the nurses said. The door closed with a resounding "click!"


***


I only wanted to take pills from the clinic - a quick, pleasant and uneventful visit. Instead, I was subjected to a few more interviews conducted by nurses and doctors wearing paper gowns, rubber gloves, and what looked like welding masks. "Fluid Guard," the label on the forehead said. I felt like I was in a scene from the movie, "Outbreak."

My second temperature reading was 39.8, and the third, 40.

"We will call you in two days if you test positive for H1N1. If we don't call, it means the result is negative," the nurse in Room 5 explained.

"Thank you," I whispered behind my own cotton mask.

Only $45 dollars later, I was on my way home with an entire goody bag of candy coloured pills.

I love Hong Kong.


***


"I feel fine today," I informed the nurse on the phone.

"No symptoms?"

"No."

"OK, then you don't need to come back to the clinic for a follow-up," she conceded. "Just continue with your medication and use a mask if you go out."


***


My cousin, Mark, ordered lechon - two, whole, roasted pigs - for my sister's wedding reception. The precious porkers had to be air freighted via Cebu Pacific from Cebu to Manila.

It was so in-demand that I only got to see its leftovers the next day in the form of lechon paksiw, served by my mum on Chris's last meal with my family. Chris isn't exactly the most adventurous eater, and so I bit my tongue to stop myself from warning him that it was leftover roast pork re-cooked in vinegar and a sauce of pig's liver.

He liked it.



With Affection,
Astron

Hello, Friends!


Punks on gentrified Wyndham Street aren't common. Non-existent, even, amidst the stylish row of art galleries and bistros. And yet, my eyes could not have been deceiving me. A creature with neon green mohawk and skintight scarlet jeans was smoking casually on the curb.

I felt as though I chanced upon an eerily beautiful spider that happened to keep still just long enough for me to capture an indelible image.

"Look here," I called out.

He turned his head towards me in mid-puff, black lips sucking on a skinny cigarette.



Venturing into Tivo, I was enveloped in a bear hug by the drag queen, Lovely. She had assumed the gigantic stature of Alice in Wonderland, the curly locks of Little Orphan Annie, the polka dot dress of Minnie Mouse, and the ruby slippers of Dorothy. She was a shocking package that had neither sense nor subtlety.



"Something stinks!" she bellowed, waving a daintily gloved hand in front of her wrinkled nose.

"Yes, something does stink; I can smell it from across the room," my friend, Rye, whispered into my ears.

I consciously caught a whiff of my own armpit, in case it was me - I was soaked in sweat from dancing to DJ Angus's trademark brassy vocal house. It wasn't me, I thought, relieved. At least I remembered to apply some deodorant.

Three feet away from the till, another punk writhed and gyrated on the floor as though awaiting bukkake. He was ghostly pale, almost like an albino, with sad, puppy dog eyes. I instinctively wished to collect him off the floor, but his sinewy legs encased in purple snakeskin trousers warned onlookers to merely "Watch, Don't Touch."



I rubbed my eyes to clear some cloudiness. I must have had too much alcohol on the junk earlier. I took a sip of my pinot grigio. When I looked up mere seconds later, even Rye had taken his shirt off.



The punks jumped on tables, on the bar counter, on people, on each other... There were fingers and lips and tongues. I thought that HK's prissy party folk would at least get a little intimidated. But the punks were treated like pets, almost, albeit with some caution.

And then she arrived - The Rabbit.



Her slick, womanly perspiration elicited even more brazen behaviour. It wasn't enough to just look any more. One had to touch.

Tivo's quaintly named "Sunday Tea Dance" had become a throbbing mound of hot flesh and bare teeth and intoxicating animal redolence.

I wordlessly wriggled away as the room started to spin faster and faster.

I had to get out.

It was midnight.



With Affection,
Astron

Hello, Friends!


There could not have been shittier conditions for a junk trip. The sky was pissing.

I thought that the boat would leave late, for sure, because the boys wouldn't be caught dead wet before a boat trip.

Big mistake.

"I'm trying to stop the boat from leaving," Chris hollered into his mobile phone at exactly 11AM.

"On Queen's Road now," I hollered back above the din of fat raindrops on the cab's roof. "Five minutes!"

"Let's hurry, please," I urged the driver.

He dropped me off at Pier 9, after which I had to sprint a short distance to the platform. Soaked from head to toe, I finally boarded the boat.

"I see nipples approaching; James is coming," Victor announced whilst passing around all manners of toxic fruit. There were fat lychees drowning in a pool of vodka, a succulent watermelon stabbed with a bottle of Absolut 100, mango and berry Jell-O shots... The boys greedily skewered the lychees on long sticks, after which the vodka marinade was wisely poured into pitchers to use as alcohol base later on. Waste not, want not.

I collapsed in a heaving pile beside Chris.

"Those lychees are lethal," he remarked.

"Hm," I agreed, my eyes rolling to the back of my head.

"Three of those and you're drunk."

"I've had three," I admitted.

"Oh, dear."

We had only just begun.


***


I was expecting testosterone overdrive on the boat, but half the boys were still obviously recovering from Jason Lai's debauched birthday party at Volume the night before. The rain helped, too, in keeping people's energies within manageable levels. Most of us congregated to chat on the main deck whilst the boat powered onwards to Clearwater Bay.

Alcohol helped speed matters along. Everybody seemed to have met everybody else within the first 15 minutes - no mean feat when 31 beautiful men are involved. The natural instinct otherwise would have been to target one's crush and establish ownership within the first half hour. Then, you'd practically need pry bars to wrench the pairs apart.

The rain stopped along the way. A hint of indigo clawed through the grays. A brush of blue skies teased further down the horizon. We were hopeful that the weather would only get better.

When we finally reached the spot where we'd drop anchor, the boys needed no further prodding to jump into the water.

Within ten minutes, rain fell once more.


***


Even as the boat's speakers had to be wrapped in cellophane to protect against the rain, Eugene's reliable iPod pumped hit after hit.

Cellophane was, at least, peeled off the tinfoil trays. Lunch was served - whole wheat sandwiches with grilled eggplant and zucchini, orange chicken, salads, barbecued meats, Doritos, and nuts galore.

The boys descended on the spread like hungry vultures, which led me wondering: Where do all the food go? Do these boys have hollow legs? They were all wearing the skimpiest of swimsuits, too.

The chicken was first to disappear.

We were clearly a boat of carnivores.


***


Except for a couple of situations involving allegedly involuntary erectile manifestation, the boys were surprisingly well behaved.

And except for a few valiant souls who maneuvered the choppy waters in between intermittent rain showers, most were quite content to be lulled into an alcoholic stupor.

By 2PM, our collective struggle to cull more alcohol was becoming increasingly belaboured. The boys had almost depleted the contents of five enormous Coleman chillers. We were a quivering mass of alcoholics, battling to uncork wine bottles with whatever impaired motor skills we had left.

Miraculously, two more pitchers filled with the alcoholic marinade we salvaged earlier on re-appeared. Michael and his mini-me, Rob, proceeded to ration the thirsty masses. Calls of "Last alcohol on the boat!" only served to fuel the hysteria.

Later, it was becoming apparent that alcohol was marinating nothing less than our brains. Boys were belly-sliding across the upper deck, whilst Banedikt simultaneously poured vodka and coke into the mouths of other boys who were spread-eagled on the floor.

"Don't waste the alcohol!" someone wailed.

"I thought I wasn't going to driiink..." Noel bleated like a sheep as he passed around his stash of Chupa Chups. Excited hands quickly emptied the candy bowl of its contents until afterward, all you could hear were the contented sighs of boys hungrily sucking on sweets.


***


"Is it time?" I asked Jewell.

He nodded.

"Group photo!" I yelled.

"Everyone on the other side of the boat!" Jewell herded. Some boys were so inebriated, they practically needed to be scooped up.

"Can't we just take a picture from this side?" a reedy voice whined.

Our token straight boy, Nick, graciously offered to take the class photo for Michael Murphy's Summer 2009 Junk Trip.


CLICK!

In the end, everyone had a good time despite the rain.

Gay boys evidently didn't receive the memo when kids were taught, "If life deals you lemons, make lemonade."

Never mind.

Who wants to make lemonade, anyway, when you can use the lemon for vodka tonics, instead?



With Affection,
Astron


Thank you, Michael.

Hello, Friends!

I'm not a martyr. I know full well why I keep going back to the gym despite the multiple agonies that I have to endure. And contrary to popular opinion, it has nothing to do with swimsuit season.


10 Things I Like About My Gym


1. The Hot Plate

Admit it: You like things that vibrate.


2. The Magazines

Tatler, Prestige, Men's Fitness, Sports Illustrated.

It's almost like being in my favourite beauty salon. Every day!


3. The Computers

Sexy Macs, no less.

Updating your Facebook status in between sets instantly nukes muscle fatigue.


4. The Music

OK, so it's occasionally brilliant. The other day, some genius's iPod was docked onto the sound system: "Love Fool" by the Cardigans! "Breathless" by the Corrs! "Fantasy" by Mariah Carey!

I was in workout ecstasy.


5. The Receptionists

The ladies at my gym deserve medals for keeping their smiles on at all times.


6. Workout Uniforms

Including socks!

The uniform helps create a more neutral workout environment, making it easier for me to focus on myself rather than on muscle envy.


7. The Lunkheads

You know the type - they like to check out their hair, they like to flex their muscles in front of the mirror, they like to make bets with other guys that they can do more reps or lift heavier.

That's entertainment!


8. Record Sheets

Unlike progress in human relationships or even in our careers, which tend to look nebulous and frustrating at times, achievement in the gym is so easily measured.

No guessing games.


9. The Steam Room

...and the fact that I'm the only one who can seem to take the extreme temperature. Everybody else jumps out the door as soon as the steam scalds their delicate, exfoliated skins.

Ah, bliss.


10. Free Razors

No more excuse to look grungy and ungroomed where it matters most.



With Affection,
Astron

Hello, Friends!


Hip Hong Kong, every stylista's bible to this beloved city which we all love to complain about, now lists your favourite blog - Astron's Notebook, what else - on it's blog roll! And not only that, we're listed right below America's Next Top Model wild child Elyse Sewell!



There are 20+ blogs listed that inform and entertain about what has been, what is, and what else there's to be.

We're tickled PINK!

Lots of love to Liza Monica, Hip Hong Kong's fabulous doyenne.


With Affection,
Astron

Hello, Friends!

I heard my phone ringing in the locker just as I was coming out of the steam room. It was Rye, checking with me when I'd like to have my casserole of kare-kare delivered.

"Are you hungry?"

"No," I said, feeling disgruntled rumbles within. Damn protein shake made me feel bloated and dizzy; I felt the muddy brew sloshing around my tummy. "But let's meet up, any way. Give me a call when you're ready. Let me know where you'd like to meet."


10 MORE Things I Hate About The Gym


1. Arrogant fitness trainers

"Sorry, mate. We're doing a circuit. We're gonna need that bench in a while."

Just because you're doing a PT session doesn't mean you have sole rights to the facilities, asshole. Haven't you heard of "share and share alike"?


2. Fitness trainers with stick-thin legs

I do accord some understanding and consideration to pushy fitness trainers who keep trying to sell PT sessions. After all, it's their living.

But for heaven's sake, lads, how am I supposed to believe that you can help me achieve my targets if I see that you, yourselves, are only concerned with "T-shirt muscle"?

Work those legs out and be a paragon of fun, well-rounded fitness professionals!


3. MORE mean girls

In between my bench press sets, I felt a gentle tap on my shoulder.

"Mind if we alternate?"

"Not at all. Please," I gestured towards the bench.

She then proceeded to take my plates off and loaded thrice what I was doing.

In another corner, a grandma with leathery, orange skin was doing squats that was equal to my body weight - 150lbs.

Chapeau, sisters. This is my insecure self speaking.


4. The lunch rush

Who knew? I certainly didn't. The gym gets extremely crowded from 12NN-2PM with office workers. At 2PM, the place empties up considerably until about 4:30PM, when the tai tais come in after lunching at Harvey Nicks.

I suppose I wouldn't have minded as much if I didn't recognize many of the faces - they were group class instructors and fitness trainers who were obviously catching up with sets in between their appointments.

HELLO.

Please don't compete with members when the club is at its busiest.


5. Sweaty machines

Far be it for me to castigate those with overactive sweat glands. I perspire a lot, myself. But at least I make sure that I clear my area when I finish. That includes wiping down the equipment.

There's a reason why alcohol pads are available throughout the gym.

USE THEM.


6. Skinny Chinese boys

It's not fair.


7. Fruit hoarders

There was this woman who swiped four apples from the fruit bowl and slipped them into her jelly bag.

Has the continuing downward spiral of the economy left us with no shame?


8. Dirty toilets

Again, a health club needs more than just one locker room attendant. The old uncle with his back bent from carrying heavy sacks of wet towels needs help.

HELLO.


9. Overpriced products

I don't understand why my club charges 100% more than what I pay for protein shake and creatine in Jordan or Causeway Bay.

Oh, and by the way, $60 for a sandwich and juice combo is too much. In case you haven't noticed, the economy is in a downturn.

Please respond accordingly.


10. MORE mean gays

There were these two, infatuated lovebirds gossiping like schoolgirls and making lovey-dovey eyes whilst on the elliptical machine. They were appropriately attired in shorts that were each a size smaller than they needed to wear. Afterwards, they did their weight training in tandem with discomforting displays of affection.

Chaps, can we save this sort of games for the bedroom?

And since I'm on a roll, PLEASE DON'T CHECK YOUR GAYDAR ACCOUNT IN THE GYM's COMPUTERS!!!


With Affection,
Astron