'Nuff Said

Everything, Even The Kitchen Sink



Those familiar with fantasy role-playing games would be familiar with the bag of holding, that small sack that can hold tons of your stuff in a pocket dimension, much like Mary Poppins impossibly spacious bag.

The Scottevest is a real-world version of the bag of holding, a normal garmet that’s blessed with over 30 pockets, some of which can be combined to create larger ones. With technology miniaturization in fever-pitch mode, this spacious article (over 2,000 square inches of pocket space) can hold your PDA, celphone, CDs, and more. And it’s got “wiring,” too, as Leander Kahnet reports for Wired news:

“All the pockets on the jacket have little holes, some of which are connected to several "conduits" for running wires, like a cell phone earpiece that comes up from a pocket toward the wearer's ear. At the collar, a pair of elastic loops hold the earpiece wire in place, and the ear buds can be put away in a tiny pocket.

Since its debut several years ago, Jordan's wiring system has become very well thought-out. The pocket holes and fabric conduits make it possible to connect the gadgets to each other all over the jacket without exposing any wires. His patent on the system he calles the "personal area network," or PAN, is pending.”

It fetches for a hefty Php 11,000 ($200). Add Php 7,150 ($130) to bring the pocket count to 42.

For more information, visit Scottevest.

Internal Affairs

After lunch today, I bumped into one of the guys I used to hang out with in Malate. It was such a delight to see him again after so long. After exchanging the usual pleasantries, I asked him about his mom, who had recently been operated on – one of her thyroid glands was infected and needed to be removed.

I was stunned at his news. The doctors had mistakenly removed the uninfected gland, leaving the infected one all snug and secure in his mom’s neck area. Realizing their mistake, the doctors had her take appropriate medication for some time before a scheduled radiation treatment.

On the day of the treatment, another surprise sprung from the box. The folks who were supposed to administer the radiation treatment had the session postponed. The reason: my friend’s mother wasn’t supposed to take the aforementioned medication because it would nullify the benefits of the treatment.

This "case of mistaken thyroid identity" illustrates one of the higher heights of irresponsibility in the medical profession. While I’d like to believe that the mistakes were not intentional (which is why they’re called ‘mistakes’), they’re downright alarming and unforgiveable. And what kind of compensation, or even comfort, can counter the poor woman’s trauma from the injustice done to her body? My friend couldn’t begin to answer that question.

Coincidentally, while I was en route to work this morning, DZMM was talking about a congressional hearing on the subject of medical malpractice, implying that there’s no clear legislation on the matter. (Though, I hope someone in-the-know can correct me.)

Human error can be such a bitch when the error is irreparable and the victim happens to be you. But eventually, all we can do is continue to trust our doctors, our nurses, our surgeons, etc. that they'll do a spiffy job at making us better, and forgive them one day when they botch up. We can only hope to our gods that we or our loved ones don't end up as part of this unlucky statistic.

Art Will Not Save You

I’ve been deluding myself. Some of the graphic novels and trades in my collection had been bought on impulse, and I point my accusing finger at the artists whose work I’ve revered or at least admired. Since I’m not familiar with a lot of comics writers save Moore, Morrison, Gaiman, Claremont, Byrne, Waid, and other household names, it’s the art that catches my fancy first, unless the book comes highly recommended. Sadly, the fantastic art gets overshadowed by unforgiveably horrid writing, making what should be an enjoyable comics reading experience into a head-splitting chore.

The latest culprit is Batman: Hongkong. The art of Tony Wong definitely took my breath away (though I’m more partial to Wing Shing Ma’s stuff), but Doug Moench’s writing asphyxiated me to delirium. (I haven’t finished reading this medusa; any more reading might turn me to stone.) And it’s a purchase that ranks up there among the most regretted buys. Sorry, Tony, but your art did not save this book. And it sure didn’t save my money.

Now I’m not familiar with Doug Moench’s writing at all. All I know about the man is that he’s one of the more respected writers in the industry, and I think I’ve seen his name in many-a-Batman adventures, and it's definitely unfair of me to judge his abilities based on one work. (He won't be in the business for the past decades if he didn't have the guns to tote.) Maybe I was just unlucky with Batman: Hongkong, and hypnotized by its lush production values. Maybe Moench was attempting to capture the writing style of Cantonese manhua, a cross-cultural comics experiment.

Or maybe I’m deluding myself again.

So for those who intend to write comics. Please do everyone a favor by learning to write first. And write well. Because you’ll save yourselves a lot of frustration (like Chuck Austen), and because mind-blowing art won’t save you.

Blankets
Craig Thompson
Top Shelf Productions

When I was a kid, I was visited by my cousin the night before she was buried. (She died after a brain tumor operation.) Her silhouette stood in the darkness of my room, framed by the window, right beside my bed. Instinctively, I reached for my blanket. It was beyond reach. So I closed my eyes, taking quick peeks to see if she was still there (and indeed, she was), relinquishing all hope that my blanket won’t be there to protect me.

Craig Thompson’s follow up to his critically-acclaimed Goodbye Chunky Rice takes the common blanket as an allegory to our never-ending quest for protection. While, as children, our blankets served as shelter against the perceived evils of the night, we weave our own psychological and emotional blankets as we go through other stages of our lives, and these blankets take the form of our religions, our romances, our friendships and even our hopes for the future. And as each stage comes to pass, we’re obliged by choice or circumstance to let go of our blankets and allow ourselves to run naked and vulnerable, until the next blanket comes our way.

Blankets appears to be semi-autobiographical, as implied in its disclaimer and given that its lead character is named Craig. In this graphic novel's entire 540+ pages, Thompson toggles between past and present, taking us through the lead character’s early life with his brother Phil, then to high school where he falls in love with Raina, a sweet and adventurous girl whom he meets at Bible camp. During this entire course, we explore their families and the ironies that burden them, and eventually see how all these elements mold Craig’s view of himself and life.

Religion is a constant in Blankets, as the lead character goes through strings of Bible verses as they relate to his situation at hand. Here he questions its purpose and tenets, how it can be stifling and liberating at the same time. Ultimately he makes no general judgments about it, save that which only applies to him.

The beauty of Blankets lies in its honesty, made raw and compelling with Thompson's art style which brings to fore the medium’s advantages. Despite numerous transitions in the narrative, Thompson manages to keep the story flowing and immersive. Definitely for mature readers because of its breadth and depth, Blankets has that inexplicable quality that strikes chords despite its isolation. Though the ending felt a bit lukewarm and anti-climactic, the overall effect of Blankets cannot be discounted. We should allow ourselves to grow the way we see fit, it suggests, even if we have to let go of what we believe keeps us safe.

Keka
Starring: Katya Santos, Wendell Ramos, Vhong Navarro, Bobby Andrews, Ryan Eigenmann, Jordan Herrera, etc.
Written and Directed by: Quark Henares
Viva Films

Keka is a young 20-something whose boyfriend (Jordan Herrera) gets offed by some fratters. Over the next five years, she returns the favor by killing them one by one. Meanwhile, Wendell Ramos’ cop character tries to solve the mystery behind the murders, only to discover later that the perpetrator is the girl he’s fallen in love with.

Suspension of disbelief is required in Quark Henares’ latest feature film. Keka doesn’t overtly seek to justify murderous vengeance; it doesn’t even appear to have a deeply-rooted social agenda. The characters and the film simply tell it like it is, and one isn’t really called in to care for them, at least in the emotional department. This may not sit well with many movie goers (like me), especially given that the amount of exposed skin is indirectly proportional to Katya’s breast size.

If anything, the film shines in its tightness, a cleanly-edited film that runs high on the indie-treatment barometer, non-linearity and all. The script is equally engaging, a good attempt at expressing apathy and disillusionment using modern language. Visually, Henares has succeeded in transporting me to that alternate reality, to make real what is inherently unreal. There’s a rawness to it all, tight and clean yet bathed with atmospheric detritus, a reflection of the irony of immersing the fantasy in reality, the environment where the characters exist.

But this is where I find Keka’s greatest fault. To me, the film trips and stumbles in the performances. If only the actors had enough of a grip on the nuances of the script and a full awareness of the vision to deliver textured performances then would the film have been more engaging. It’s an almost-there scenario once again, and the hiccups sadly happen quite often.

During the film, we get to see the two protagonists in separate ‘interview sessions,’ cinematic devices that are supposedly meant to add a facet of character reality, the way we learn more about celebrities when they’re interviewed in talk shows. This device, while refreshing in itself, didn’t work well for me overall in Keka. Celebrity interviews aren’t always intimate, in that you only get a ‘press release’ which isn’t accurate of reality. Now if the reality being described is by nature farcical, then the detachment is greater. What should have lent to the film has actually created a disservice.

Keka is a good-enough initiation to those who aren’t familiar with the indie school of filmmaking. The characters are familiar and the plot is easy to digest. The film’s non-linear execution has enough twists and turns to keep your eyes glued to the screen. But if you’re a big fan of indie films, you’ll swear you’ve seen films like Keka before, treatment-wise, and even declare that there are far better ones out there.

My Rating: 7 out of 10

Long Weekend

My Friday officially began in the afternoon. Teeth day, after ten thousand years of not setting foot in dentist’s clinic. There was something amiss about my pearlies that I needed to have them checked, and thankfully the good dentist told me that all I needed was five caps that could all be dealt with over the next two or three weekends. But the best part of it all was having the luxury of walking to the clinic from home. Just around the corner, a minute away.

After getting my teeth cleaned, I hurried to the cinemas to catch Quark Henares’ dark comedy Keka, starring Katya Santos and Wendell Ramos. Not a total waste of life, that film, and cleanly-executed for the most part. After the movie, it was a cup of caffeine at Mocha Blends, where I finished reading Craig Thompson’s innocently-honest coming-of-age graphic novel Blankets. A good and touching read, which should have been, given its ridiculous price.

I proceeded to Music 21 - Timog Avenue for a singing engagement with some members of the gang and some a couple of special guests. You’ll find more details about this in the blogs of Dean, Vin, El, Charles, Tobie, and Nikki (who was most recently pulled through the gates of blogdom). Fun all around; videoke sessions are always best with the right company.

Got home at around three in the morning, hit the sack at five, and woke up a good eleven-and-a-half hours later. I decided to stay home, intent on saving, among other things. The thought of moving out again knocked from within my noggin.’ More on that when plans and tactics grow firm.

It was fine time to clean up my hellhole of a room, thereby gradually flushing out more spiritual baggage. I sorted through one of my giant stuff boxes for things to throw away for good, things I’d keep for pleasant memories, and documents that desperately demand filing. In my ideal world, I’d convert all my old paper files to digital and save me precious room space. There’s still a lot left, but I’m in no rush. A little every so often is better than none at all.

I also catalogued the TPBs and graphic novels I’ve amassed. They’re not a lot compared to those of other comics aficionados – a little over twenty I’ve counted – but enough to look like a decently varied collection. I’ve somewhat decided to stay away from spending on comics for an indefinite time. They do cost an arm and a leg, and there have even been a few to which I’ve attached slight regret. Thankfully, the next few trades I want to get (Arrowsmith, 1602) won’t see release anytime soon.

Sunday was deliciously quiet compared to the previous weeks. Allow me to explain: we currently have 13 people in the household, including three kids and three maids. My sister and her family had been living at the house for the past four years. My brother and his family moved back in because of an altercation in his wife’s house, where they had been living for the most part since they got married. The noise barrages have never been louder, particularly when my niece and nephew fight over toys, something that happens all too often really, much to the chagrin of my mom.

So it happened yesterday that both families were gone for the afternoon, leaving the house under the spell of heavenly bliss. I spent the early afternoon having a much-delayed chat with dear mother who needed a respite from all those solo Scrabble games she’d been playing. When mom needed to head kitchen-wise to prepare dinner, I did an hour of toxin-purging aero-weights. After a soothing hot bath and a post-workout drink of non-fat milk mixed with three egg whites, I was off for Quezon City.

At seven, I was along E. Rodriguez Avenue, having dinner at Toto’s Lechon. Boneless bangus and lechong manok (not the best but good enough), then coffee at Gloria Jean’s. Soon after, I was at St. Luke’s Medical Center. My friend Jam had an ulcer attack and had been admitted at the hospital to get an endoscopy the following morning. Her deejay boyfriend was working his shift, so she asked me to keep her company. I stayed at St.Luke’s till after midnight (finally seeing an episode of Spielberg’s Taken) and got home an hour later via a semi-neurotic taxi.

Yawn. Long weekend. Short week ahead.

BancNet on the Net

Jason recently suggested that I try e2door, which enables me to purchase online using my BancNet ATM in lieu of a credit card. This is great news for me, since I've been applying for plastic for the past five years and have always been rejected. And not one of 'em credit card companies would tell me why, damn them.

Anyhoos, e2door is a local service, wherein you can visit most online malls (Amazon!!) and do your purchases via a special e2door browser. Your orders get delivered right to your door.

I'm raring to try out this service. Oh, please, let there be no glitches.

Hmmm... Let's see...

Whisper to a Screen

Highlighting the past few days was my perusal of the first draft of the Zsazsa Zaturnnah screenplay. Receiving the document wasn’t something I expected, much less demanded, but I’m very thankful that the folks behind the production saw it fit to solicit my comments and suggestions about it.

So there’s gonna be added scenes, modified sequences, and some new supporting characters. The screenwriter gave a well thought-out first draft. I found myself laughing at some of his additional dialogue and sequences. Some of the new bits may not sit well with a lot of you, but note that if you take the entirety of the original comics work, pacing and all, a film version would barely reach 90 minutes. This provides an excellent opportunity for the filmmaker to add more creative meat into the adaptation. Of greatest concern is not so much page-by-page accuracy, but more the deftness of craft and channeling the spirit of the original work. X2, for instance, was not very faithful in a lot of ways to the original comics, but it’s in itself well-made.

Casting-wise, the line up is too far from complete. Only sureballs lie in two characters. Because many of today’s actors have found steady-income refuge in television, squeezing in shooting days, much less a commitment for the film, is difficult. Add to that their personal demands as well as those of their managers. So everything’s pretty much up in the air as far as this area is concerned.

It's so rare that I get possessed by the supreme urge to write creatively, as in pronto. It happened recently, and this is the result.

-------------

First she asks me if I’m afraid, and I shake my head. I am not afraid. I see no reason to be so.

I have never touched a woman’s breast that way. It was a bittersweet sting, a feeling much unlike those times when friends would tease, prancing at the poolside right in front of me, catching my face in the crevasses of their cleavages. This time, she takes my hand slowly, tenderly, as if it were a fragile flake of snow, and spreads my fingers upon her supple chest, near her heartbeat, all the while looking at me with her autumn eyes.

She’s afraid. Her heartbeat tells me so. But why should she be? Is it because she knows that this moment, this very night, means nothing to me?

I hold her, first at the waist, brushing the curve of her hipbone, then trail up her smooth back to an embrace. Her breasts press against me, and I feel her quiver beneath them, see her skin begin to glow under a nervous glaze. She asks me why I’m not afraid, and I stare, silent, submitting to the moon’s call for rising tides before blindly submerging her. On her bed, she gasps for air, and tells me that she wants to drown.

I caress her, knead her, taste her, love her the way I, for the past three years, loved him. I savor her the way I savored him. Devour her the way I did him, the way I did all my men. She calls out my name like a wave in search of shores long eroded, and I plunge into her without thought or remorse, ignoring choice, need, and longing, giving in to the screams of skin.

Between her legs, moist and fertile, she holds me while copper leaves fall from her eyes, welcoming my bitter winter. She writhes beneath me, taking as much of me as she can, her arms and hands pulling me to meld, to be one with her. The tighter she holds me, the deeper I go, boring, grinding madly, stabbing her, tearing her and her dreams asunder. The way he did. To me.

After three years, it is done. I roll off her and face the ceiling, catching my breath, waiting for another season to pass. The room falls silent again, with a hint of chemicals in the air. Shed chemicals reacting like oil to water.

She rises, sitting upright next to me, then with the same tender hand, travels the length of me. I watch her as she does so, seeing how her breath escapes her in brumal clouds, how her sweat hardens to cold crystal. Leaning towards me, she kisses my chest, near my heartbeat, then leaves the bed for the bathroom.

Her frostbite kiss lingers, as though affixing itself to memory, before it relents and fades. Lying there, I hear her weeping beneath the patter of shower spray, and turn my gaze to the ceiling again.

Dark clouds gather. In my hands a ghostly suppleness swims, and in my ears someone’s name floats. Slow deaths flash before me, touching frozen heartbeats. Around me, autumn leaves fall, welcoming chemical winter. And amidst all these, I find myself unafraid still, as snowflakes bearing his name form at the corners of my eyes, and descend painfully upon white jagged shores long eroded.

Comics Splendor

One of the recently released films that I'd like to see, though will definitely be left untouched by local distributors, is American Splendor, a film based on the story of Harvey Pekar, the Ohio-based creator of the comic book of the same title. The R-rated film bagged the Grand Jury Prize at the 2003 Sundance Film Festival as well as the FIPRESCI award at Cannes, and earned accolades from critics all around (currently 94% on Rotten Tomatoes' Tomatometer).

Beyond its premise involving an independent comic book creator with a day job (sounds familiar), American Splendor is interesting to me because of the way it's executed, a drama that's part documentary, with bits of animation. As described by Mike Clark of USA TODAY, "You'll also see a creative approach to storytelling that could well have blown up in the filmmakers' faces. In what could be his role of a lifetime, Paul Giamatti plays Pekar — as the real Pekar often appears on camera to comment on the action, as do animated clips and other real-life characters we see played by actors."

It stars Paul Giamatti, Hope Davis, Harvey Pekar, Judah Friedlander and James Urbaniak, and is directed by Shari Springer Berman and Robert Pulcini. By HBO Films.

Pagsasamang Kayganda... Noon at Ngayon
Starring: Dina Bonnevie, Cherry Pie Picache, Jean Garcia, Eula Valdez, Laurice Guillen, Marvin Agustin, Paolo Contis, Jodi Sta. Maria, Aiza Marquez, Dimples Romana, Patrick Garcia, Jericho Rosales, Noni Buencamino etc. etc.
Screenplay: Ricky Lee
Direction: Marilou Diaz-Abaya
Star Cinema

Like its predecessor (1983's Moral, also by Diaz-Abaya), Pagsasamang Kayganda... Noon at Ngayon tackles societal changes from a personal perspective, tackling issues hinged on who we can and cannot love, and resolving lessons of the past with circumstances of the present. There is a rebellious air in the film, made light by the often witty comedy and the accessible melodrama, and what better way to portray morality shifts than through the lives of those who’re on the lower tiers of the Filipino socio-sexual superstructure – women.

Social worker Joey (Dina Bonnevie) comes back from abroad to look after her dying mother Maggie (Laurice Guillen) and reunite with her best friends: effervescent new-ager Kathy (Jean Garcia), strong-willed and principled educator Sylvia (Eula Valdez), and conservative widow Maritess (Cherry Pie Pichache). Sounds like a powerhouse cast right there, and enough lives to delve into within a two-hour stretch.

But noooo. Kathy’s daughter (Aiza Marquez) is unashamed in expressing her devotion to Maritess’ daughter Bryan (Paolo Contis), a proudly gay man who eventually wrestles with handling a relationship with a closeted young politician. Sylvia’s son Bobby (Marvin Agustin) is desparate to get his wife pregnant to satisfy his mother. In turn, Sylvia lives with the fact that her husband (Noni Buencamino) is homosexual, even to the point of befriending the new man in her husband’s life. Maritess’ daughter Guia (Jodi Sta. Maria) is pregnant, thanks to a law student (Patrick Garcia), whom she doesn’t want in her life, content at raising the child on her own. Then Levi (Jericho Rosales), Maritess’ adopted son, falls in love and soon shares intimacies with Joey.

Whew! And to think that this Moral update is supposed to be about four women, period.

Of course, I didn’t get to see Moral. Heck, I was 12 then. But I did see The Hours, a film that’s ten minutes shorter about three women in search of personal happiness. And sorry, but I can’t help but compare the two.

The problem with Pagsasamang Kayganda... is that it deprives you of focus, thanks to the army of ‘supporting characters’ who seem to get as much screen time and attention as the four leads. And because of this executive decision to give the younger stars some acting meat, you begin to wonder who’s supposed to be carrying this film. The premise of seeing the world through the eyes of four women disappears, giving way to an impression of an ensemble piece that’s not quite there.

And I could do without the political symbolism, thank you.

Because it becomes a chore to keep track of this hodge-podge of lives whom we’re all supposed to care about, I focused instead on the acting chops. Stand outs were Eula Valdez (because of her well-portrayed character transformation) and Jericho Rosales (because of his silent intensity). Patrick Garcia was a pleasant surprise, too, at least when he first appears in the film. The rest were, well, good enough to keep things moving.

I guess it all boils down to knowing what to expect, and my fault was expecting Pagsasamang Kayganda... Noon at Ngayon to let me in on the lives of four people who struggle through societal change, to let me care for them as they go through one compromise after another, and to get me to cheer with them as they emerge as stronger people. As it turned out, every character in the film became a neo-archetype of modern society, acquaintances you’d probably see in a social club or a bar, and you hardly get to the core.

My Rating: 7 out of 10

Wet Wet Wet

Saturday started as a good enough day. Until it got really wet.

Left the house at 10:30 in the morning to attend the first of a seminar series organized by the Ateneo Comics Collective and the UP GrAIL (Graphic Arts In Literature). First in the near-two month line-up of sessions was one for writers, led by gang member Dean, Alamat’s Budjette, and Mango Comics’ Zach. Almost 30 were in attendance, including Jaime Bautista, who teaches a comics appreciation elective at the Ateneo.

Judging from whatever left of the session I caught, a good time was had by all. Dean, Budj and Zach had this ‘showtime’ rapport which the attendees appeared to relish. It was an overall success.

After the seminar, we went to the FBR condominium across the campus for lunch at Encomium, which should have been a convenient choice since it was a floor below Comics Central Headquarters. (I had wanted to check out their new trades and graphic novels from independent publishers.) But attempting to dine at Encomium turned out to be a nightmare. To make this long story short, I wasn’t able to have lunch (unless you call half a bowl of soup, iced tea, and coffee a decent meal) because of horrid service inefficiency. This atrocity was only marginally dispelled by good conversation with the Ateneo guys. Andrew Drilon, a few pounds heavier than when I last saw him (what has UP done to you?), later graced us with his presence, and revealed that he was planning a sequel to his metatextual opus Subwhere.

I left Encomium later that afternoon, hoping to quickly catch a cab to get to the office. Dean has an important presentation on Monday, hence my choice to work on a Saturday to get his materials all set.

Then it began to rain like doomsday.

It’s strange how the number of taxi cabs seem to dwindle when it rains heavily, as if their drivers were psychically attuned to the weather patterns, and pulling a vanishing act at the first sign of an awful downpour. This thought only occurred to me after getting drenched to the bone despite the trusty umbrella, feeling the cold cold wetness crawl up my jeans to just below the waist. I had optioned heading for shade, but seeing that there were other mortals likewise hailing for sporadic cabs, I braved the soak, tilting my umbrella just at the right angle to minimize the water damage.

To think that I had dressed up neat and proper that day, planning my color combination days in advance, as I had a little get-together that night with greenjack, Xochi et al. in Makati. (Dressing up is really near-nuclear science to me). Who’da thunk I’d be victimized by a sudden mood swing of the elements.

When I finally got a cab, and settling myself on the expansive area behind the driver, there was only that olfactory assault of mucky rain-on-denim, the feeling of a damp, wrinkled shirt, and the company of a wet bag. I immediately checked to see if my new purchase was affected (Top Shelf Comics’ bible-thick Blankets by Craig Thompson). It had to be okay, given the fortune I had spent on it, and thankfully it was.

Got to Greenhills at 4:30 pm and rushed to the eighth floor to get work done at the office. I was hoping that I’d dry out somehow in time for Makati. Which was a foolish wish, really, for three hours later, there was still that mucky-sticky feeling, particularly between the soles and socks and the quasi-rot stench of wet denim. Despite my being alone on the eighth floor of the supposedly haunted Atlanta Center, I was too miffed to feel any kind of fear. When Xochi texted, reporting a change of venue because of a downpour in Makati, I resigned to staying. Trendy-schwendy Greenbelt is not the best place to be when you’re soaked, harried and pissed.

So I had my first meal of the day at gool ‘ol Country Waffles, devouring their Combo Breakfast while being oblivious to the world. Vin texted saying that they were done with LXG, and later arrived with Dean, Nikki, and Dino. The next hours were spent discussing, open forum-like, matters about family, kinship, loyalties and love, and answering telenovela-scale what-if questions. (“Your undeniably greatest and truest love, the person with whom you share the utmost physical, emotional, intellectual, and romantic connection,.tells you he or she has to leave with no prospect of communication, and won’t be back in your arms till you’re 50 years old, asking you to make a vow of supreme loyalty in body, heart and soul. Will you make the vow and, if you do, stay to true it?”)

What a day! A two-sided coin, laden with incidents favorable and otherwise, an impromptu three-flip of the proverbial wheel of fortune. Dean himself had a roller coaster day as well, and I’m sure he’s written it all down by now in his blog. While days like yesterday are welcome, making for interesting blog-worthy material, I wouldn’t want to have them everyday. It’s their rarity that makes them special and memorable.

Among all the vignettes I've written as part of the writing exercises Dean gave us, the one below is by far my favorite. Gives me hope.

Goodbye Genesis

"Well…"

The chamber crackled with luminous green energy, millions of tiny pyrotechnic flashes coruscating in a semi-spiral dance of code. Warren smiled to himself, his heart softening despite his tensed muscles, marveling at the display before him.

"You see, Arumand," he whispered. "Each tiny spark is a galaxy in bloom. If you've ever wondered what it was like to be God, to see what he saw in those seven days of Genesis…"

Arumand shifted in his seat, ambivalent towards Warren's unfinished sentence. He observed the spikes on his monitor, cross-checking each peak with an adjacent read-out panel, looking for incongruous data streams and aberrant wave-shifts. The creation of a new pocket universe did not interest him; all he cared for was the process, how things took shape, how things withered. How things died.

"Detecting microsecond jumps in the chronometrics, Warren," Arumand said blandly. "Do I track them out?"

"No," Warren answered softly, subdued by his fixation. "A chronometric jump will be about ten to fifty thousand years equivalent. We nitpick at one billion. Or five."

Arumand took a brief look at Warren, who was unmistakeably mesmerized by the fruit of a ten-year long crusade he hardly cared for. His mind reached out to Warren's pulse-strobed face, touching its softness, and for a moment he felt he was looking at God. God in the guise of a man he loved.

He cared about the process. How things died.

"Congratulations."

Warren slowly turned to him. "It's not done yet. We celebrate at midnight according to schedule."

Arumand forced a breath. "Can I take a break, then? Five billion won't come around for another twenty-three minutes."

"And where will you go?" Warren's eyes glazed over, the green luminescence catching his sudden concern. Will it be twenty-three, he thought? Or forty-six? Or sixty-nine?

"Seven-Eleven. Gotta get myself a Coke."

"I'll go with you."

"Stay, Warren. You can keep your eye on the progress. I won't take long."

Warren moved slightly to Arumand. "But you need to see this. We need to see this together. Don't you –" He stopped himself, somehow aware
of the answer. Arumand didn't want to see this, Warren concluded.

"I'll be back." Arumand stepped close to Warren, planting a light kiss on his lips and, without hesitation, trudged towards the lab exit, disappearing into the darkness.

Warren watched him as he walked away, like a star welcoming the pull of black holes. He turned back to the spectacle of sparkling green, and thought of creation. Of growth and abundance. Of life spun by his very hands. Of love. He'll be back in twenty-three minutes, Warren assured himself. He'll be back in twenty-three minutes.

That's five billion years.

But I Don't Know How To Play the Violence...


Fight Club!


What movie Do you Belong in?(many different outcomes!)
brought to you by Quizilla

After over a day of battling that blasted BLASTER worm, the office is back to normal, and I can update this here blog.

Medication Meditation

I think it’s my vitamins.

I had assumed my sluggishness and incoherence to be due to huge amounts of mental activity - - the job, reading and studying prose, writing the next book, designing Twilight Empires - - but another probable culprit has, up till recently, utterly been ignored by yours truly.

We all know that most medications and supplements have some form of side-effect, but it’s more often difficult to identify and isolate these side-effects because they, by nature or design, manifest beneath your nose. They don’t immediately punch you in the gut unless you’re living in a deep well deprived of many a-distracting stimuli, and you have a state of mind resembling a hollow block.

So I’m going to hold off the potent vitamins and minerals beginning this weekend to ascertain the validity of an assumption. Maybe ginseng, gingko bilboa, and horny goat weed need to be approached with caution.

Award!

On Saturday, August 30, Philippine publishers and book creators big and small will gather at the Philippine Book Fair to see who gets to add an award to their respective collections. Yes, it’s that time of year, folks, when the Manila Critics’ Circle announces to the world which of last year’s books deserves a coveted National Book Award. I was informed that Ang Kagila-gilalas Na Pakikipagsapalaran ni Zsazsa Zaturnnah parts 1 AND 2 bagged a finalist slot in the comic book category, and it will be up against Arnold Arre’s highly successful After Eden.

Thanks to the Manila Critics’ Circle for giving my book a finalists’ slot.

Is 2003 going to be the second best year of my life?

Rambling

Begin Ramble.

Work-wise, I was pretty unproductive today. It was one of those days when thought processes were… well … not processing optimally. The axons and neurons refused to hold hands, so to speak, and I found myself for the most part, unable to concentrate on what needed to be done. Which is totally unacceptable, given the new deadlines.

The workload for the week is still manageable. None of the horrendous urgency of the past weeks, yet my brain’s been screaming “Slacker!!” from within my cranium. Have to get more sleep in tonight, so it’ll be auto-quickie day tomorrow.

I got more lines into my Hierbas script. For those who just tuned in, Hierbas is the next book I’ve been dedicating my writing time to, set in our fantasy world Hinirang. Hierbas tells the story of three women of varying backgrounds, whose intertwining paths lead to irreversibly horrible consequences. I’m gunning for a drama now, with mystic and horror trimmings, which analyzes bits about love, religion, society, and interpersonal politics. With the ever-present “threat” of The Shelf, I’ve got to get a lot of this baby done before the end of the year, as I’m aiming for a late-2004 release.

This, of course, runs counter to my “press release” about releasing Zsazsa In Manila. As I’ve posted before in this blog, whatever gets done first will be it. While I’ve got the plot and story highlights down pat for Zsazsa in Manila, the story has to be able to write itself for the most part, and a voice inside me tells me that it’s still not able to do so. Perhaps the cast is still immersed in their R&R.

Speaking of Zsazsa, the movie is still undergoing preprod, and more casting changes have been made. I’ve been receiving semi-regular feedback on the progress of the movie, and it’s a delightful experience having to be consulted on this matter. A special effects house has expressed interest in doing the project, too, and filming should begin before year end, if not early next year.

Two publishers have expressed interest in compiling parts one and two into a single volume, and I have yet to communicate with them at length on the details behind the deal. As Dean intimated in his blog, Zsazsa and company’s first adventure might (and I’m crossing fingers and toes here) land a finalist slot in this year’s Manila Critics Circle National Book Awards. Now that’s a potential selling point right there.

I’ve been invited by two university-based comics orgs to conduct a seminar-workshop this September on a facet of comics creation, particularly Page Composition. This doesn’t sound like a high-brow topic to hold a session on, but page composition is integral to the success of a piece of grafiction. Because of its relatively subtle contribution to the comics medium (it ranks up there with lettering), it can be difficult to grasp. So I’ll be drawing a significant portion of my powers for this, especially since there has to be a host of visual examples to explain my points. (Thanks to the Ateneo Comics Collective and the UP-GRAIL for the invite.)

End ramble.

- - - - - - - -

From Tobie: Will I help a friend commit "Youth In Asia?" (Euthanasia)

Only if there's no other way out of the intense suffering.

From Vinnie: Will I allow myself to be cloned by a loved one when I pass on?

I guess that's their choice. There's no guarantee that it's still going to be me.

From Vinnie 2: Will I clone a loved one who has passed on?

No. It'll be too freaky. More than that: Will the clone have the original soul? I don't think so. Can you reinvent reincarnation? But then again... what if? There's a story in there somewhere.

Zsazsa Viva Italia!

I was invited by UP professor April Yap to contribute artwork to be part of the Philippine exhibit in this year's Romics International Festival on Comics and Animation, to be held on October 2 to 5 in Italy. It's an honor to be representing the country alongside the likes of Arnold Arre, Gerry Alanguilan, Leinil Francis Yu, Nestor Redondo, and others. I supplied 10 pages from the Zsazsa comics for her to choose from. You can visit the Romics site here, but you have to know your Italian.

Playing With Verses

I wrote two poems for last Saturday’s PowerPoets session at Powerbooks-Arnaiz. Obviously rushed, these pieces, but passable considering, both adhering to the session theme “Indifference.”

INDIFFERENCE

I see you on the defensive
Stonewalled across the heart
And eyes pointed to directions
Beyond me

Corrosive is your demeanor
Though acid seems milder
Descriptive of your silences
And whispers

There you stand thousands of miles far
A beacon of light tall
Strong and resilient to quakes and
Bitter storms

While I struggle through seas and seas
Coughing up liquid salt
Wishing that lightning would offer paths
To save me

Then a mirror breaks deep within
Of pasts and dreamt futures
Telling me luck nor hope will be mine
Seven years

And when you choose to cast your light
On me, torn and broken
I feel the weight of your frozen stare
Drowning me


ALIW SA GABI

Thank you for calling e-Telecare
How may I help you?

Isang laksang tinig ang dumampi sa aking tenga
Bawa’t isa’y nagmamakaawa
Na sana’y mabigyan ko sila ng kaunting kalinga
At kaunting pansin

Thank you for that information
That’s account number 09-9298265-03

Tila akong mang-aawit na iisa ang kanta
Di kumukupas o naluluma
O mistulang burikak na bumubuka-bukaka
Na ganun-ganun lang

Thank you for waiting
I’m sorry but your account has not been updated

Nagkakataon lang na lumilihis ang diskarte
Di sinasadya ang magkamali
Kulubot ng aking tono, gayon din iyong nota
Walang personalan

I apologize for the inconvenience
I’ll transfer you now to the supervisor

Ito ang kuwento ng pangkaraniwang gabi
Nagbebenta ng aliw sa Libis
Mabuwisit ka man ay walang anuman, dahil ‘di
Tayo magkakilala

- - - - - - - - -

Apart from seeing a whole bunch'a wonderful people last Saturday night, my night was doubly made when I purchased the Engima trade paperback (by Peter Milligan and Duncan Fegredo) for the sale price of Php 409. WOW! What an offer! (in classic Home Shopping Channel accent). Tobie had lent me Enigma some time ago in its single pamphlet version, and I was blown away by the wonderfully-crafted story, about one Michael Smith and a superhero who comes to life, and comes with a denouement that totally knocked my socks off. This is highly-recommended to those who like dark and intricate modern-fantasy stories. And it doesn't matter whether you're a comics fan or... well... gay. This is simply one piece of grafiction genius.

Responsorial Psalm

From David: Someone you love, or someone who loves you?

This is a toughie. Hmmm. . . This question assumes that the other party is devoid of even an iota of affection towards the other. Honestly, I’d rather not have either, but just for the sake of answering, better the latter than the former.

Martyrdom sucks. I thank you.

From Dean: Do you do it for love?

If you’re asking about sex (like, what else would it be about?), then the answer is always yes, with no exceptions unless there’s an upheaval in the cosmic order.

From Dino: How do you love?

Being an Aquarius, I can get kind of unpredictable. It’s all circumstantial. But definitely I’d go out of my way, occasionally quite foolishly, to make sure the other party feels important and needed.

From Elbert: Does this mean you'll be going back to your acting roots and play a part of some sort in Zsazsa the movie?" And, and, "What's your favorite color?" (Since you’re such a nice guy, Sir El, I’ll answer both.)

I’ve no acting involvement in the Zsazsa movie, and film isn’t really my province. Acting for film is a different discipline altogether, and I’m convinced of the fact that I’m not “telegenic.”

My favorite color is slightly desaturated blue.

From Tobie: Flurry or miscopic?

Sir Tobie, the two words do not compute. Flurry is more “agitated” while miscopic is a contraction of “microscopic.”

From A: What are you writing now?

Working on “Hierbas.”

From greenjack: Where did you go, little boy?

The Mosque of The Twice-Conceived.

Tonight I went to a place I wasn't supposed to go to, but I did anyway. I just needed to find out if I was better.

After leaving that other world, I can't say for sure if I'm better. All I know is that I'm not well.

While there are those who are.

Go Ahead, Ask Me

Is there a question that you’ve been meaning to ask me? (This being my blog, I guess I should take advantage of the opportunity.) Anything about me or what I do or how I think or feel?

Well, there’s the tag-board at the left hand side of the screen. If you have one, and just one, question you’ve been meaning to ask me, then fire away. I’ll answer all questions as a blog entry.

Don’t worry. I won’t take it against you. (But my demonic minions are beside me to assess the maleficence of your inquiries, and are prepared to haunt the dreams of those with malicious intents.)

Indulge me.


In Need of Sloth

I got out of the office close to midnight last night. The floor was deserted and death quiet, only broken by the muffled rumbling of the elevator’s ascent. I hurried off the floor, fighting off that tinge of childish fear brought about by stories that tell of the spirits that had found solace at Atlanta Center.

Country Waffles had just closed for the day (or night, depending on how you look at things), so I taxied to Whistle Stop - Libis for dinner. Yes, dinner. I tend to do this from time to time, holding off dinner till literally the last minute of the day.

At Whistle Stop, I had their “Power Breakfast,” a protein-packed meal of two sunny side-up eggs, a corned beef patty and garlic rice. It’s one of the default meals I’d order when I’d find myself alone in any Whistle Stop branch. It’s not the best meal in their menu, but it’s the safest in terms of taste. You can’t lose when it comes to corned beef.

After dinner came the customary two cups of coffee, along with my short reading for the night, an article from Scientific American that sheds scientific light on the legendary Delphic Oracle who, according to tales, supposedly miffed Oedipus with news that he’d off his dad and knot with his mom. The researchers concluded that the trance-like state experienced by the seers during divination sessions was induced by the gaseous emissions - - namely methane, ethane and enthylene - - of bituminous limestone. Interesting.

Another article I’ve started to read was about witchcraft and science in the 16th century. (I’ll finish that one tonight.)

I took a taxi from Whistle Stop and got home at around two o’ clock. When I woke up this morning, I was a vegetable with a headache. Like an inebriated zombie, I swaggered to the phone to call Marc at the office to tell him that I’d come in late. I would have not gone to work if the day’s load wasn’t that heavy or urgent, but that sadly wasn’t the case. Good thing that my fellow designer Bok made sure that things were under control. Bless him.

I’m becoming more convinced that I’m taxing myself to the limit in both brain and body. If only I could get myself to stop using my brain for an extended period, then maybe my condition will normalize. Right now, as I type this, there’s a wee ache running from between my eyes up to the middle of my spacious forehead. Sana tulog lang ‘to.

It's almost 11:00 in the evening and I'm still here at the office, exporting a document into Adobe PDF format. Then I'll be torching a CD with some files for a client before heading home. Such is part of the life of a graphic designer, or most anyone involved in "hard manual labor."

It's honestly quite rewarding. That's why I'm still doing this design thingie.

Learning from Dean

Those of you who’ve been visiting the blogs of the other gang members should have discovered by now that our very own Dean Francis Alfar bagged his fifth Palanca award this year for his one-act play Onan’s Circle, a piece which explores the modern-day phenomenon of online and eyeball encounters.

The play was originally meant for the full-length play category, and the gang had a chance to do a reading of the frenetic first act quite some time ago. But as Dean explained in his blog, Onan’s Circle underwent round after round of editing under his critical eye. The characters were primarily homosexuals, though I’m not sure if the final one-act version keeps that line-up.

During his initial Palanca-collecting spree about a decade ago, Dean won in the same category for his emotionally-charged First Time. This three-character one-act tells, on its surface, about a man who comes to terms with his sexuality through the unsolicited help of his gay friend. We read this play with gusto some years back, complete with emphatic cursing, in Dean’s then condo unit in Makati.

I’ve learned a whole lot from Dean in the few years I’ve known him, from the simple lessons of life to the complex workings of the writing craft. (Especially using the word ‘sensibilities’ wherever applicable, to the point when I’ve decided to exercise total discernment over it.) Opinionated and sharp-witted, he sometimes shocks me with what comes out of his mouth and, admittedly, there’s some facet about him that reminds me about my dad. Heck, he sometimes acts like one.

He’s one of the few people whom those close to him would describe as lucky in love, as his wife Nikki, an eloquent, witty, and exotically-featured woman, shares just about every bit of interest he has, from reading to writing to comics to the arts to Neverwinter Nights to The Amazing Race, etc. etc. And her calm demeanor beautifully complements Dean’s animated character.

At work, he does his best to make his staff comfortable and, at the same time, inspires professionalism. The workplace has a very casual air, thanks to his managing style. When he and Marc discuss business matters openly, it’s like watching a segment of some reality TV show – very entertaining and yet very insightful. His style would definitely not work in most stiffy corporations and, thinking about it, might even get him into trouble.

Needless to say, there are some noodles where we find ourselves in disagreement, but that’s the beauty I find in my friendship with Dean. We may disagree at times, but we respect each other, acknowledging that each one’s opinions are shaped by unique personal experiences..

He’s been encouraging everyone to take a leap at next year’s Palanca’s, even taking the gang through a series of serious writing exercises via our mailing list. Though there are a lot of aspects about writing that I still fail to grasp, Dean has been very patient as a teacher and, thankfully, blatantly honest in his critique. I know for a fact that I won’t become a super-fantastic writer, but with his guidance, I think I can muster being at least a capable one.

Again, to Sir Dean, congratulations!

Billboarding

During late-high school and through most of college, I was an avid listener of the Billboard Charts, paying closer-than-close attention to the rising and falling of American pop songs. I’d even have a notebook where I’d plot out everything on a table, trying to predict what next week’s charts were going to be like. My best friend and I would customarily burn the phone lines after the chart show, blasting those songs that didn’t deserve the number one spot, and lamenting how others couldn’t even make the top five. Our favorite victims were the divas of the time – Whitney Houston, Madonna, Mariah Carey, Paula Abdul and Janet Jackson.

It was during those years when we witnessed the collapse of some acts. The Jets topped the charts with Make It Real and Rocket 2 U, then slowly faded away. Tracie Spencer had a good start when her debut This House hit the top ten, but her presence was long gone after that, even when she recently released a new album. Mr. Big made a splash with their first single To Be With You, and most everyone thought Maxie Priest had a chance after Close To You, but their US careers didn’t really go very far. Then there’s Naughty By Nature, Tone Loc, Karyn White, Taylor Dane, St. Paul, SWV, Shai, Vanilla Ice and a host of other chart casualties.

Just for the sake of comparison, here’s the Billboard Top Ten chart, this week and that of a ten full years ago.

As of August 9, 2003

1) Crazy In Love (YAY!!)
Beyonce Featuring Jay-Z

2) Right Thurr
Chingy

3) Rock Wit U (Awww Baby)
Ashanti

4) Magic Stick
Lil' Kim Featuring 50 Cent

5) Unwell (YAY!!)
matchbox twenty

6) Never Leave You - Uh Ooh, Uh Oooh!
Lumidee

7) P.I.M.P.
50 Cent

8) Where Is The Love? (YAY!!)
Black Eyed Peas

9) In Those Jeans
Ginuwine

10) Get Low
Lil Jon & The East Side Boyz Featuring Ying Yang Twins

(FYI: Thalia is at No. 26 with I Want You)

As of August 7, 1993

1) Can t Help Falling In Love (From "Sliver"
UB40

2) Whoomp! (There It Is)
Tag Team

3) Weak
SWV

4) I’m Gonna Be (500 Miles)
The Proclaimers

5) Slam
Onyx

6) Lately
Jodeci

7) If I Had No Loot
Tony Toni Tone

8) That s The Way Love Goes
Janet Jackson

9) Show Me Love
Robin S.

10) I Don t Wanna Fight (From "What s Love Got To Do With It")
Tina Turner

How time does fly.

Imagine an image of your room on a monitor. Now imagine that image distorting, the vertical lines of the door, window and wall corners warping into tight zig-zags, as if the transmission was faulty. The image is not shaky, nor blurred out, but merely disturbed by the zigzag shredding.

This is the image that met my eyes when I woke up this morning, something that has never happened in my entire life, and I implore anyone to tell me that they, too, have experienced this at one point or other. On a humurous note, I had a quickie thought that my brain-to-eye connection skipped a few. Or, if I internalize my readings on hyperreality and the theory that we're all living in a hologram, then it could just have been a glitch in my programming.

Tossing the Idea Salad

In search of a new zing in our Saturday night-outs, the gang journeyed to Libis to have dinner at Jack’s Loft. Eastwood City was bustling with metrofolk, mostly of the younger set, with music blaring from everywhere. It had been a while since I subjected myself to such volume levels (that was in Malate early last year) but the readjustment wasn’t too painful.

Jack’s Loft is subtitled “The Dessert Bar” but it does serve some meal fare. Vin and I had the shiitake-embellished risotto while the rest had their beef stroganoff. For panulak, I had the 85-peso iced tea, served in a large and unwieldy fishbowl-shaped glass. The risotto came in all of its one-cup glory, which is great for those on a diet, but wasn’t really worth the 150+ quid in my book, despite the favored flavor. The iced tea didn’t hold anything special as well. Bottomless iced tea will always rule, even if it’s Lipton.

The caramel-drenched chocolate cake ordered by Vin was pretty standard, too. But I remember having a cheesecake there once, which would have been a better option.

Over dinner and loud house music, I raised some questions about our pet fantasy world Hinirang, the setting of the story I’m currently writing. Point of focus was the religious set-up of the world which, again, is based on Spanish Philippines. Because the God-equivalent in Hinirang is three female personages, dubbed by Dean as the Tres Hermanas (Three Sisters), major decisions had to be made about how church services are conducted, the role of women in the clergy (female priests), even down to specific rituals like communion. The establishment of three personages presents interesting creative challenges which have to be readily addressed, as there would be Hinirang stories in the future that will be presumably hinged on or wholly about religion, its role in society, and how magic works given our specific pantheon. More importantly, these challenges need to be addressed as a group, as Hinirang was built by a whole bunch’a people, which makes for interesting creative conversation.

(And all that in the quite trendy Jack’s Loft. We’re such geeks.)

As an aside, I have to find the time to check out Jason’s recommendation – the Philippine Heritage Library – which holds a wealth of information about Spanish Philippines. This is indispensable in my writing of Hierbas (Weeds), I had mentioned in a previous post.

I have to cook up a more stable title for this story soon, because I confess that it is the title that helps me through the storywriting. Titles I’m playing with are “The Confessions of Thorns” and “Peace, Grace, and Mercy.”

After Jack’s Loft, we brought Dean home to tinker with his new DVD player, leaving the rest to coffee and chat at UCC-Podium, where the topic shifted to Vin’s intricate Twilight Empires. After hurling ideas at each other concerning one of the bazillion spacecraft designs that need to be made, we found ourselves in stitches when Marco layered Vin’s concept over the intro spiel of the animated cartoon She-ra. Hilarious, but rather haunting.

Congratulations to Vin for submitting the edited script for the first issue as scheduled! Now I need to crack my knuckles and take a deeeeep breath . . .

Just Finished

Just finished reading Jules Verne's A Day of an American Journalist in 2889, which based on a bit of internet research had a previous incarnation written by his son Michael Verne with the title In the Year 2889. It was later published under Jules Verne's name, and later used as a basis for his own story La journée d'un journaliste américain en 2890. I can't understand why the year occasionally toggles between 2890 and 2889.

Anyway, the short story tells of ...well, aptly enough... the day in the life of Francis Bennett, the most powerful media mogul in the 29th century, the founder of The Earth Herald. Eloquently written despite its expositions, the story brings to life a what-if world where aerocars, telephotic gadgets, and conveyor streets are the norm. It reeks of wonder and awe, bordering on hyperbole. Some points can even be interpreted as farcical. Yet for all its over-the-top facets, it's still very much grounded on the human condition. Marginally a difficult read for me, but it was satisfying overall.

Another piece that I'm glad I held on to till the end was Rosario Cruz Lucero's The Death of Salvador Montano, Conquistador of Negros, winner of the short story category of the 2001 Palancas. It's very difficult for me to describe this piece in detail as I'm not equipped with the tools, apart from it being a magical realist slice-of-life. Deliciously written with verdant imagery, this story makes me wonder if a lot of the Palanca winners -- or Filipino short stories in general, for that matter -- are written this way. If this is true, then I'm saddened that I didn't start this reading spree earlier. There's too much undiscovered wealth out there. I'm glad I have friends who are voracious and discriminating readers.

On another front, I've finally consumed Batman: Child of Dreams and I must say that my previous impressions about it were a bit immature. The one mistake I made about it was that I didn't go into manga-appreciation mode when I read it, as this was an entirely Japanese interpretation of the Caped Crusader, which contrasts greatly with the way Americans might view the hero. I didn't like it as a whole, true, but it wasn't a complete waste of life or money.

VATICAN CITY (CNN) -- The Vatican has launched a global campaign against gay marriages, warning Catholic politicians that support of same-sex unions is "gravely immoral."

The Vatican issued a 12-page set of guidelines with the approval of Pope John Paul II in a bid to stem the increase in laws granting legal rights to homosexual unions in Europe and North America.

"Marriage exists solely between a man and woman ... Marriage is holy, while homosexual acts go against the natural moral law," the 12-page document by the Vatican's Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith said Thursday.

From CNN.com

Hmmm...