All Do, No Talk

By Cecile Lopez Lilles

There are very few things more agonizing than having to endure the company of a man who talks too much. Economy of words, I believe, is hard-wired into the male psyche, which makes the male motormouth a mutant -- an abomination of the natural scheme of things. Unkind words, you think? Sorry, can't help it.

If a man isn't a lawyer arguing a case in court, or a preacher delivering a sermon, or a Kristo in a cockpit for a Sunday derby, a jeepney or bus conductor hailing commuters over, or an auctioneer with gavel in hand, he should be sparing in his words. The genius in the architecture of a man's mind gives him the ability to condense his speech into only what is absolutely necessary, not a syllable more. If he spews them out at the rate of a couple of thousand per minute, something is awry. I have carried this bias for most of my life and have been fortunate enough to steer clear of such men until it finally backfired on me recently at the gym on a cruise ship where there were 1,800 passengers from 34 different countries.

I was running on a treadmill -- it actually appeared more like I was running after my breath -- huffing and puffing, battling against my cardio endurance, against all the unwanted weight I had to carry with each step, against my perseverance, and against my weakening will. I was soaked in sweat; my hair plastered firmly onto my forehead. There was a mirror some 20 feet behind me and I had a clear visual of my bottom bouncing away and swinging from left to right in perfect synchrony with my swishing ponytail as I struggled along. Eeew! Gross! But I couldn't have walked out on my own body, could I? So I bobbed and heaved, grinned and bore it, and soldiered on. I then noticed a young man lifting free weights behind me, facing my bottom squarely. Poor thing, I though to myself, considering the sight he had to endure.

Beside me, running on the next treadmill, was another woman, Caucasian, 50-ish, maybe 60, with a full head of gray hair, but she looked like she was ready to take on the New York Marathon. She cantered on, in perfect form and poise, blowing air out of her mouth at calculated intervals. I looked back at the mirror to check out her bottom, hoping that it it would at least look her age so that I could feel a little better, but boy, I couldn't have been more mistaken! She had a perfect little tush that sprouted lean, long legs -- the faster to propel her along that treadmill with. I knew then that I was going to have what I call a "loser day" -- when nothing seems to go right.

She was actually nice; I was the evil one -- checking out her bum and wishing her to stumble on the treadmill simply because she was 100 times more physically fit than me. She made small talk and offered pointers on how I could maximize my oxygen consumption.

If he just came up, got it over with, and spoke to me, I could tell him that I'm a mother of six and I definitely ain't buying what he's selling.

"Focus on something," she urged me.

"I can't," I said. "The sight of my bum in that mirror hanging behind me is much too distracting."

She broke into a giggle and gave me a thumbs-up for having a sense of humor. She then added, "Think good thoughts or home in on a single spot so you can concentrate, then be aware of your breathing. You want even inhalations and exhalations."

Just then, a young man, the same one I spotted lifting weights earlier, positioned himself right in front of both of us, just several feet from our treadmills. He was Chinese, I'm quite certain. First, he did some deep stretches, glancing at me every once in a while, prompting me to think that, hey, this guy probably knows me. But I couldn't place him; I had no recollection of his face and he couldn't have been my daughters' friend -- I know each and every one of them. The lady next to me asked, "You know the young fellow?" I knew then that she was at least 60 because only 60-year-olds use the word "fellow" to mean "man."

"No, in fact, I don't," I answered.

We couldn't help but watch him as he lunged very close to the ground, did full back bends until his feet faced one way and his face, upside down, faced the other way. He also did front and side splits spreading his legs apart, completely perpendicular to his body, making me flinch and wonder if he had any groin at all. He did all these while casting glances my way, more often now and for longer periods this time. S***! I was in complete awe of how much control he had over his body.

"Perhaps he fancies you," the lady running beside me joked.

I didn't think it was funny at all; in fact, I was a bit offended. "I don't think so," I shot back, although her broaching the subject started to make sense. The young man/contortionist was almost facing me this time, like the whole performance was specifically meant for me.

The lady just smiled and ran on along. Meanwhile, the young man, finished with stretching, started a series of crisp, precise moves strung together into a routine. It was clearly some sort of martial art and there was no doubt that he was excellent at it except that he had no opponent against whom he had to defend himself, so my judgment of his skill could have been totally wrong.

Anyway, the woman turned to me again and said, "You know what I said earlier about this man showing off to you as a joke? Well, I'm not joking anymore, he's deliberately catching your attention. Say something already, the poor thing! How much longer can he hold out, you think? One can only do so much stretching; he might dismantle his whole body!"

I thought that she was quite forthcoming but North Americans are no-nonsense in their dealings so I knew where she was coming from. I told her off as the young man continued prancing about -- this time flashing me toothy, come-hither smiles: "Here's the deal: I'm probably twice his age and I have six children, two of which are right around his age."

She did a double-take and blurted, "I'll say!" It distracted me from the matter at hand momentarily because nobody ever says "I'll say" anymore -- she was most definitely over 60!

I told her, "He's been at it for about 20 minutes now. If he would only talk, he could spare himself all the effort, all the trouble of performing for my sake. If he just came up, got it over with, and spoke to me, I could tell him that I'm a mother of six and I definitely ain't buying what he's selling, although it's an adrenalin shot to the middle-aged ego, thank you very much."

She said, "Then just tell him, for Pete's sake!" (There it was again; who says "For Pete's sake" anymore?)

"I can't!" I protested. "He might think me presumptuous. What if he were simply practicing his routine? It's going to be so embarrassing."

"Oh, we weren't born yesterday. Between both of us, there's probably more than a century of living. Of course we know what he's doing!" She broadcasted the age thing a little too loudly for my taste. "The poor boy," she continued. "If you don't tell him, I will."

And so she did! He stopped right in his tracks -- in mid-step if I remember right, on one leg, arms stretched toward the ceiling, palms clasping one another. Then, he jerked upright, looked at me... and scampered away. I felt so bad for him. I had intended to say, "I have two daughters, 24 and 22; you might want to meet them someday," but he vanished faster than I coould say "Abracadabra."

The lady asked me after the young man had left: "Was I mean?"

"Not really," I replied. "You simply divulged my demographic: age, marital status, number of children. You might as well have spilled my weight and waistline measurement. What could be so mean about that?"

Then we both broke into laughter.

Okay, now I have to alter my contention. Unless a man has funny speech patterns, an irregular, squeaky voice, or an incredibly thick accent like David Beckham, Rafael Nadal or Steve Buscemi he better stand up and be heard to save himself time and effort in gaining something or someone he desires. The concept of manna from heaven is a superstition; good fortune doesn't fall from the sky, one must earn it. Contrary to Philippine folklore, the guava never falls from the tree, one must flex his muscles and pick it.

So to all the gentlemen out there, don't talk too much -- but for heaven's sake, say something!

Taken from The Philippine Star

Too Nude To Be Crude

By RJ Ledesma

There were two naked people in the middle of the room. And one of them was, unfortunately, male.

I have to say, when I arrived at UP's "100 Nudes, 100 Years" nude sketching session, I felt gypped. I was ready to be overwhelmed by 100 Rubenesque bodies splayed all over the exhibition hall of Mandarin Oriental Suites in Gateway Mall publicly displaying their privates. Alas, the models did not make the quota. Damn. Another adolescent fantasy remains unfulfilled.

Not only did I feel gypped, but I also felt quite uncomfortable because I wasn't sure what constituted appropriate behavior at a nude sketching session. Although my wife thoughtfully etched a couple of reminders onto my forehead on how she thought I should conduct myself during the session: first, do not stare at any R-rated body parts for more than three seconds. Second, do not hyperventilate. And, third and most important, do not touch. Yourself or the model.

So in-between those three-second intervals that I took staring at the nude model (the female one, okay? The female one), I recall my mom telling me that good behavior suggests that you make the people you are with feel more at ease in your presence. And since the models looked a bit tense onstage (it's a bit more obvious that you are tense when you are naked), I though it would be polite to also remove my clothes and make them feel more at ease. However, I also realized that not everybody would be comfortable with my nudity. So I kept my fig leaf on, just in case.

While the female model was being captured in all her Rubenesque-ness, I spoke with nude sketching event organizer and artist Romy Carlos. Tito Romy is a landscape and portraiture artist who has the uncanny, eunuch-like ability to stare at a naked woman without reaction, without hesitation and without his wife present. I swore to myself that, before this session was over, I would find out how he keeps his composure during nude sketching sessions, how I could get him to invite me to future nude painting sessions without fear of reprisal, and how come he wanted me to put my clothes back on.

NUDERED

RJ LEDESMA (a.k.a. Wanna-be Nude): Tito Romy, are you a normal man? Allow me to elaborate on this question before you stab me with your paintbrush. Normal men will find it very difficult to stare at a naked woman without having a physiological reaction that your life would like to beat out of you. So how do you do it? Is it medication? Stapler and rubber bands? Fear of the Lord?

ROMY CARLOS (a.k.a. Nude is Never Enough): For artists, I guess it's different. Basically, you'd like to finish your artwork. But surely, like any other human being, you feel also a sensation before the session starts.

Ah, so you get the sensation before the session starts?

Of course, just like any normal male.

Is it the same sort of sensation that you get when you have a urinary tract infection?

Ahem. But the moment the nude sketching session starts, you can see that everyone is so quiet and focused. You want to finish your work and do a good job.

Tito Romy, aren't you afraid that if you stare at her too long that your eyes might melt? That's what my yaya says.

You don't look at the model continuously anyway. The only time that you really spend looking at the model is at the start of the session because you'd like to choose the angle and lighting of the model that will be best-suited to your sketch.

I discovered that the best way to stare at naked women is by pressing the pause button.

Most of the time, you are looking at your canvas and not at the model. You only glance at her from time to time.

What do you look for when you request a model for a nude sketch? Do you say, 'I'd like a size 36C cup, please'?

Actually, that's a misconception.

A misconception? Why? Is it a D cup? Wow, you artists are demanding.

Normally, when you are looking for a model, the manager often asks you, 'Do you want a beautiful woman?' Actually, we don't. What is important is that the model knows how to pose. And that she is also patient. In fact, the great models are the ones who are already kulubot na. Because they have character lines.

Kulubot na? O, yaya pwede ka pa palang mag-model.

YAYA: Ulol.

We aren't looking for a Miss Universe, you know. What is more important is the interpretation by the artist of the nude model on the canvas. During Renaissance times, the ideal form of beauty was voluptuous. The emphasis was on the breasts. So the breasts had to be full. However, standards of beauty change through the ages.

Tito Romy, I think we should emphasize that some standards should never change.

For me, I like our model over there. Not too fat, not too skinny. She's just right.

The Goldilocks philosophy works well for me, too, Tito Romy.

NEVER TOO NUDE

Which nude is easier to draw? The female nude or the -- God help me -- male nude?

I guess it's easier to draw the male model. Primarily because I am a male.

So that means you know where all the body parts belong.

But for the female, there are a lot of nuances. There is a bit of subconscious that enters the drawing. Because, let's face it, not all the models are generously endowed. Maliit ang kuwan ng model.

Ah, yes, the non-Renaissance kuwan.

Kapag kinopya mo yung kuwan, somehow you feel that something is missing. So usually, you add a little something, to make it more... proportional.

Sigh... If only we could use our subconscious to make things more proportional. So, Tito Romy, let us talk like real men who do not live in fear of their wives. Staring at the nude model doesn't do anything for you at all? It doesn't make you frustrated? Excited? Temporarily insane?

Personally, it does nothing for me. All you want to do while sketching is to capture the essence of the model.

That is also what many D.O.M.s want to capture as well.

Carnal desire just doesn't enter the body somehow. But as the model takes off her clothes, siyempre nakakuwan yung senses mo eh.

Ah, so even the kuwan does something for you pala?

Pero, it's another thing altogether when a model takes off her clothes on stage in a beerhouse. But the be-all and end-all of the nude sketching session is that you are able to complete your work.

Tito Romy, I don't really know what its like for a model to take off her clothes in a beerhouse. I have never been to one before.

YAYA: Ulol.

So do you usually sketch the whole body of the nude, or do you leave some parts for the imagination to prevent domestic warfare?

It depends on your mood and on the time available. Normally, if you are pressed for time, then you just choose certain parts of the anatomy.

I often choose certain parts of the anatomy when I have limited time to look at nudes as well.

Tito, there is a question my three female readers have been too sober to ask: What exactly is that fine line between nudity in art and just plain pornography?

Pornography caters to the more primeval sensations of a human being. Pornography arouses your basic instincts. But in art, there is a more sublime reason behind it. In each creation that you make, you always leave a little something of yourself in that particular artwork. That is not only your time, but also your emotional and spiritual self as well.

I see. So I should always leave a little something of myself after I look at nudes. Speaking of which, just how many nudes have you painted in your lifetime?

Um, not very many, actually. About 30, I'd say.

Well, that's 30 more than I'll ever paint. After your 30 nude drawings, can you say what would make a good candidate for a nude model?

There is no hard and fast rule. Whatever model is presented to me, I guess I won't mind. As long as the model is pleasant enough to pose and as long as the proper facilities are available, like the lighting and the background music. Then that's all right with me. I'm not too particular about the looks of the model.

Fantastic! There is still hope for me then. So, please make me happy, Tito Romy: Would I make a good nude model? I took some pictures of myself in the banyo this morning just in case.

Why not? In fact one of our male models was a UP student before. He had no previous experience but he had a fair complexion, just like you.

It's not me, Tito. It's the Glutathione. I've been jockeying for an endorsement, but damn that Gabby Concepcion and his Dorian Gray good looks.

The model adjusted very well. There were first-time jitters. It took him quite a while befoore he could come out of the room and pose. But after coaching him a bit, he finally came out. All's end that ends well, I say.

And I hope that all of his is still well.

«««««««««««««««««««««««««««««««««««««««««««««««««««««««««««««

But of course, this little tête-à-tête with Master kuwan Romy Carlos was merely a prologue to the moment that all the No Girlfriends Since Birth (NGSB), Quezon City chapter, have been waiting for: The no-holds and no-clothes-barred interview with the nude model. So, after checking my blood pressure, binding my hands with barbed wire, and placing me behind a wall crowned by broken soft-drink bottles, the interview with our nude female model began under heavy surveillance.

HETO NA, HETO NA, HETO NAAAAHHAAAAA!!!!

RJ (a.k.a. Hubo't Hubad Lumilipad): So, do you, um, come here often?

HUBAD (a.k.a. Hubad): Well, it's my first time here, but I've been modeling for some time already.

What kind of modeling have you been doing?

Ayan. Nude.

Well, yes. I could see that.

Sometimes there are pictorials. But more often they are for nude paintings.

So, how exactly do you become a nude model? There are many ways I can think of how you became one, but they are all illegal.

Actually, I was just recruited.

Oh, that being the case, can we have the number of that recruitment agency, please?

I had a friend who was posing for nude paintings, then she dragged me along to a session one time. Then her manager, Kuya Jonski, liked me. So that's how it all started.

Who is this charismatic Kuya Jonski? Can I meet him personally and give him a certificate of recognition? And how did he know you would be an ideal model for nude modeling? Was he Kryptonian? Did he have X-ray vision?

It was like an audition. There was a pictorial, and if Kuya Jonski liked your body, he would show these pictures to clients. If the cliens like your body, then they will request a session.

Do you check if any of these clients have a record with the NBI? Um, scratch that. (RJ mumbles: "Yaya, inayos mo na ba yung sa NBI?") Let's get back to the interview: How many years have you been nude modeling?

Almost three years now.

Three years!? May I ask how old you are?

I'm turning 20.

Wow. I would like to explore this topic more but I am afraid that the authorities are monitoring this interview. And what exactly are the benefits that you get out nude modeling? Is it the love of art? The exhilaration of being captured on canvas? The recognition you get from being drawn by the country's foremost artists?

Money.

Ah, that is a very rewarding benefit. How much of that rewarding benefit do you get for nude modeling?

It's different. But the compensation is much better during pictorials. The hourly rate there is... ay basta! Secret.

Yes, please do keep it a secret. I could hear some D.O.M.s writing out blank checks.

Taken from The Philippine Star

WANTED: FOR INCOHERENCE

By Scott R. Garceau

There's a hypothetical question posed monthly by Britain's Uncut magazine to its musical interviewees: "A briefcase containing £75 million is placed on a table in a room, and you can walk away with it, under the condition that a man in Peking will fall off his bicycle and die at the same moment. Do you take the briefcase?"

A similar butterfly-effect question lurks behind Wanted, Russian director Timur Bekmambetov's American debut, as it concerns a secret society of assassins called The Fraternity which receives its kill assignments from a bizarre source: secret binary code woven into ancient fabric.

But this all makes it sound more sensible than it really is. Wanted stars James McAvoy (Atonement) as Wesley Gibson, an office nebbish who suffers what he thinks are panic attacks, but which really mask a genetic ability to accelerate his metabolism to to 400 heartbeats per minute. This is a useful skill for assassins, you see. It allows them to run really fast, grab quick-moving items, and -- don't ask how -- curve the path of bullets.

The first inkling of incoherence arises with the bullet thingy. The idea is that the assassin cah whip his pistol arm out, and mentally "fling" the bullet along whatever path he or she wills. But if your metabolism is that fast, why not wait in a café for your victim, run up and garrot him at blinding speed so no one can spot you, then sit back down and finish your cappuccino?

Such questions troubled me while watching Wanted, which has the gonzo spirit of last year's over-the-top action movie, Shoot 'Em Up, yet lacks the coolness factor of that film's Clive Owen. Thus you're left with McAvoy, who, though a fine actor, is a bit of a runt, and his rubbery face caught in bullet-time contortions is not exactly chick bait.

Still, there's another thing wrong when you cast Angelina Jolie as a mentor assassin called Fox -- and she's no longer that foxy. It seems the director thought the very idea of Jolie playing yet another assassin was finger-scorchingly hot enough. But no one reckoned on Jolie's skeletal frame, which reminds one of starving children of Darfur and lacks the appeal of her earlier Mr. And Mrs. Smith voluptuousness. Tattoos and raccoon eye makeup aside, she is cool as a no-B.S. killer who trains Gibson in the ways of The Fraternity. These episodes include hopping on elevated city trains, playing with knives, getting beaten up repeatedly and swerving bullets around hunks of pork.

But she's also a blank cipher, aside from her exposition on why she became a killer. It seems that her family was murdered by a guy who, it turns out, was scheduled to get assassinated, but the Fraternity killer chickened out.

And here's the whole "£75 million in a briefcase" question plays a role. Gibson's dad, we are led to believe, was killed by a renegade Fraternity member named Cross (Thomas Kretschmann), and Gibson's genetic skills are what's needed to hunt him down. This seems to be the motivation driving most of the Fraternity members: revenge. They're not in it for the money, though they have sizeable bank accounts. More puzzling, they never seem to question that their assignments are handed down by Sloan (Morgan Freeman), an avuncular older assassin who reads woven fabric the way fortunetellers read tea leaves.

You see, The Fraternity is a 1,000-year-old organization that was created to rid the world of evil men, and their front is a textile factory with old-fashioned looms manned by -- you guessed it -- weavers by day, killers by night.

Oh, what a tangled web this plot does weave! You just start to settle in and enjoy the hyperkinetic chase scenes and even the blood-frozen-in-bullet-time hit jobs -- wherein live rounds are shown barreling through various surprised skulls in slow motion -- when the scriptwriters throw in yet another angle, each one more curved than a cylinder from Gibson's gun.

Perhaps most logic-challenged of all is a subplot involving rats made to swallow C4-laced peanut butter. The rats are then strapped with explosion-triggering wristwatches and set loose on The Fraternity's headquarters. It's obvious the director couldn't resist the filmic spectacle of exploding hundreds of rats simultaneously, but since the suicide-bomb rodents do little more than create a diversion before Gibson strides in, guns a-blazing, it all just seems a bit... silly. And yes: O.T.T.

Over the top as well are the self-conscious nods to Fight Club by the Russian director (that plodding voiceover narration, the slow-mo shots of faces reduced to moosh by fists), though none of that movie's control or wit; and the shot-by-shot recreation of the car-chasing-a-train scene from French Connection. If nothing else, Bekmambetov does enjoy delivering his action scenes and movie references.

Of course, no one's really what they seem in Wanted, a curveball also served up in Shoot 'Em Up, though again that movie refused to take itself too seriously, so it was easier to succumb to the dumbness; this one has pretensions of seriousness, metaphysical questions touched on but never really embraced, buried in a hale of bullets and CGI head blasts.

It's curious that none of these skilled assassins ever question that only certain people are allowed to "decipher" the kill assignments contained in the ancient loom cloth. But more to the point, what kind of whacked-out belief system is this? Really, now: "We take our orders from stitches in the cloth." What if the weaver had a bad day? What if she (or he) dropped a few stitches? You could easily end up whacking the wrong dude.

But Wanted takes its convoluted assassin concept from a comic book (naturally), and probably all seems a bit more plausible on the inked page. On film, it's all about gawking at the slowed-down assassinations, blood explosions and iconic gun poses like a 15-year-old playing a video game.

And this, indeed, is probably Bekmambetov's targeted audience: male teen gamers, who probably have more patience for beyond-physics camera moves and ear-crushing explosions of glass, metal and munitions than we seasoned moviegoing geezers do. In short, part of me enjoyed Wanted, but the sheer ridiculousness of the concept stopped me short of taking the full plunge. Maybe it was the part of me that expects movies to make more sense than a Looney Tunes cartoon that had a problem.

Taken from The Philippine Star

Wrist Candies

Spending hours gazing at these latest wrist candies is time well spent. The "pop" watches come in cool hues and designs perfect for cheerful, vibrant and design-savvy men and women.

ALESSI KAJ

The KAJ series of Alessi features watches for him and her with acrylic crystal and one-piece polyurethane casing that extends to the straps. Designed by Karim Rashid, the KAJ watch is perfect for the cool and stylish. Available in pink, black, gray, orange, red and brown.

ANDY WARHOL'S DANCESTEP

The Dancestep watch is the most successful series of Warhol watches to date. The featured artwork inspires and captures the imagination of people the world over. Available at MYTYM Watch Hub, Rustan's, and leading department stores.


APPETIME LOLLIPOP

The Appetime Lollipop watches look like candies in shining aluminum colors. Available in five designs and sweet colors such as strawberry yogurt and citrus cool. Check out MYTYM Watch Hub, Rustan's, and all leading department stores.

ELLESSE SKI

The colorful Ellesse watches in silicon straps set the feel of skiing down a snowy mountain hill. The stainless steel case and buckle give added strength to these chronograph watches in orange, white and blue faces. Available in MYTYM Glorietta and all NoCurfew Watch Stores nationwide.

EVERLAST

Strong yet vibrant, Everlast Timing shows how to draw power from colors! These timepieces in rectangular stainless steel case and bracelet are further toughened with sporty indexes and chronograph function. Available in all NoCurfew Watch Stores and leading department stores nationwide.

FOCE

These elegant timepieces are perfect for a walk in the park, a day in the mall, a night at the movies, or a dinner by candle light. Its elegant features exude femininity at its best. Available in MYTYM Glorietta, NoCurfew Watch Stores and leading department stores.

STORM

The highly sculptural Storm watches offer a range of styles from funky edginess to sleek sophistication. Available in MYTYM Watch Hub, Rustan's and all leading department stores.


WIZE & OPE

Customize your watch according to your mood with Wize & Ope. The collection comes in analog and digital. The straps and slides are sold separately. Available in MYTYM Watch Hub, Rustan's, and all leading department stores.


Taken from The Philippine Star

Sweet Dreams Are Made Of These

Sleep in style with fun and fab sleepwear from SM.

Beyond basic pajamas or over the top boudoir pieces, today's sleepwear takes off from current fashion trends. They're also great for lounging, snuggling up, or taking it easy with your favorite book or video.

The collection features capri-length pajamas matched with statement tees, pretty night shirts with stripes and ruffles, snappy short sets, light and breezy night dresses in cool prints and candy hues.

The collection is available at the ladies wear department of all SM stores.

Taken from The Philippine Star