RJ Ledesma checking in ...
It began with the Japanese Monster Sex Show.
This was what a rather harmless looking baby-faced man with a perennial scowl, a slight paunch and a predilection to wearing rock music t-shirts two sizes too large for his baby damulag body recommended, nay, demanded that I use as the title of the monthly music column that he would write for me in my previous stint as an Editor-in-chief of a now defunct men’s magazine (Although I still fail to see what the title of his column had to do with music unless the squeals of three hundred foot tall monsters in the throes of love sounded like heavy metal).
But I trusted this man and his monster of a writing ability. Because this man was as brilliant as he was quirky, as visionary as he was obsessive, and as sane as he could be without medication. This man, whose squinty-eyed countenance had been peering at me from his Philippine Star column ‘Outside’ for the part thirteen or so years, was Erwin Romulo: editor, writer, and a fan of musicians with names like Throbbing Gristle, Millions of Dead Cops and Dr. Octagon (Actually, Mr. Romulo used a more potent Japanese term for ‘sex show’ called b!@#$&*. And this type of show is quite popular among adult movie connoisseurs, dibidi vendors and sex offenders.)
I was on the brink of saying yes to Erwin’s recommended column name until I went online to surf for the English translation to b!@#$&*. Suddenly, my monitor was showered (almost literally) by several hundred definitions of this word along with explicit visual support. When my wife saw all those images penetrate my monitor, she set me on fire with her Godzilla breath.
As soon as I exorcised my laptop, went to confession, and was flogged several hundred times, I called Erwin “Let’s call your column ‘Just The Two Of Us’ because you are writing it with your heterosexual life partner and soft porn peddler Quark Henares. And, by the way,” I cleared my throat “You are paying for my physical therapy.”
Unfortunately, after pounding out a few columns, Erwin disappeared on like a radioactive lizard plunging back into the depths of the ocean while Quark went AWOL after he was put on the hit list MTRCB censors. Months later, Erwin resurfaced as an editor slash writer besieging another publication. Then in another. And another. It seemed as if everybody wanted several hundred words from prolific writing journeyman. At this point, I knew that Erwin was no longer a man. He was now a gremlin in an Olympic-sized swimming pool.
What made this Palanca award-winning literary sumo wrestler leave my stable of writers? Was it because of the lack of oomph in the title of the column? Was it because of creative ennui? Was it because of the call of another Japanese monster in heat? I will never know. But, I knew that one day, I would be able to give him the liberty to pursue his Japanese monster sex show. And that he would be in my thrall again.
Fast forward three-and-a-half years later: Erwin and I were grizzly, este, grizzled veterans of the local magazine industry. And although we felt that our best work was still way ahead of us, the global economy had a contrary perspective: We were both out of our respective magazine jobs (Well, at least I was. But misery is always better when it is equitably distributed). When I was freshly unemployed, I tried touching base with Erwin to find out if he could spare me some writing assignments in his magazine. Much to my surprise, Erwin was trying to reach me for some writing assignments as well.
Aha! This was divine synchronous madness at work. After sending each other a flurry of mutually gratifying texts that bordered on bromance (a bromance much like that of Marc Nelson and Rovilson Fernandez but without the abs and the product endorsements), we reckoned it would be best if we worked together in another men’s magazine that would allow us more leeway for the catch-all phrase ‘creative experimentation’. A men’s magazine that would unflinchingly hand us the editorial leash so that we could tighten our own nooses. And a men’s magazine that would let Erwin finally allow Erwin a column for a Japanese monster sex show.
And we found a men’s magazine of that mettle with UNO magazine.
Now here we were: RJ “Joker” Ledesma and Erwin “The Riddler” Romulo. The dysfunctional duo. Now all we needed was one more arch-villain so that we could put up our very own Arkham Asylum. And we found it in a sliver of a man named Juan Caguicla: part-photographer, part-artist, part-tattoo, quarter metal and one eighth metal chopstick. This man had “artist” written all over his body parts, quite literally. When Erwin first introduced me to Juan, his presence was so intimidating that he could cause small animals and little children to scamper away. I know that I had involuntary bladder discharge when I first men him.
But when Juan first exposed his portfolio to me, I knew he was going to be our “Two-Face”. For those unfamiliar with his work, this is what In-Print Magazine (September 2005) had to say about Juan’s photographic prowess, ‘his work will suck you in and spit you out feeling as if you were momentarily blinded, wondering what the hell it was that robbed you of your sight for a split-second. There is a story to every photograph but not every story is worth remembering. In Juan’s case, his photographs paint stories that will haunt you leaving you imagining a million different possibilities for endings.”
And when you see the Juan sucks and spits you through the visual artistry (yes, artistry) of the rebooted UNO magazine, you will believe that this tattooed man knows the crevices of women bodies like he knows the crevices his camera lens.
Once the three of us were on board, we filled up our asylum with our favorite lunatic fringe with the singular goal of world domination. Or, at the very least, free Krispy Kreme donuts, unlimited brewed coffee and wi-fi for everyone. And nobody will stop us from seeing our plans to fruition. Not North Korea. Not the UN Security Council. Not the Boazanian invasion force. Well, except maybe for maybe Jessica Zafra.
UNO will be the anthropologists that trawl the underbelly, the overbelly, and the bilbil of our evolving Pinoy pop culture as it makes out with the rest of the pop-mad global culture. Our madhouse team of writers, photographers, artists and convicts plan to construct a Byzantine structure of words and images that speak unabashedly to those of us who grew up wearing Voltes V underwear, gorging on sweetened spaghetti and drinking Royal Tru Orange, while watching the Saturday showdown on That’s Entertainment.
So when you read the June issue of our publication, we’ll be rubbing your brains harder than a masseuse in Quezon Avenue. Don’t believe me? Let’s put it this way, the topics that have plagued our creative forums via email groups would have had us arrested in less democratic countries:
PG Porn. Kool Aid flavors. Pick up artists summits. Evil yayas. Avant garde fashion shoots. Voltes V. Guest editors. Sex scandal videos. Eskrima. Weaponized swine flu. Animated covers. Morrisey. Bebigirls versus Supergirls. Sturgeon faces. The tunay na lalake blogspot. Alan Moore. Never-ending haiku beat downs. Kinatay. Male brazilian waxes. Star Wars themed marriages. Parkour. Cross-dressing Japanese teenage boys. Grant Morrison. Sasha Grey. Underwater hockey. The electric friendship generator. Tony Perez. Codpieces. J.G. Ballard. Stalker blogs. Jail bitch names. Evil robots. Japanese game shows. Warren Ellis. Ultimate surrender. Recessionista gays. Superhero fashion emergencies. Tantric sex.
We are just waiting to be called to the next Senate investigation.
But, hold on to your laser sword, that’s just one half of the UNO formula. Because we’d be certifiable if we thought that we could pump out a men’s magazine that didn’t depict the fine female form. And the operative words here are a fine depiction of that form. Instead of being fined for our depiction of that form.
Don’t get me wrong. We appreciate the aesthetics of the female form as much as the other male magazines that parade the newsstands. In fact, many of us grew up and grew assymetrical forearms seeing how these finer magazines showed us in garish detail how to appreciate aesthetics that had been technologically enhanced, airbrushed and photoshopped. However, we also think that there is still room in the men’s magazine market to portray female geography free of baby oil, of nipple tape, of fig leafs and of whatever fruits are in season. And hopefully free of some photoshop as well.
We at UNO Version 2.0 want to celebrate the sexiness of the female form as much as the next testosterone-addled male. But we think we can portray the fairer and less hairier sex as something more than just a set of biological signals that gets blood pumping into body parts that Viagra can effortlessly reach. We firmly believe that women are sexy beyond mere biology (But we do enjoy biology as much as the next male high school student. And Juan, God bless every little tattooed inch of him, will make sure of that). Now, we won’t be bold enough (pun, uhm, intended) to proclaim that we’ve figured out how women can be sexy beyond biology, but we’re willing to give a crack (Uhm, pun not intended either) at it. You see, sexy can be an experience. Sexy can be an attitude. Sexy can be a philosophy. Sexy can be a way of being. And a sexy woman who is an artful, chaotic mishmash of all these attributes, she can be more complex than chaos theory.
Welcome then, every all, to the evolution of sexy.
And to start off this grand singular experiment in sexy, we’re getting some electroshock therapy from another Philippine Star columnist who will grace the cover of our revamped magazine. And here’s a clue: You can count your cocktails that’s its not fellow columnist Scott Garceau (or else his wife would have used her Godzilla fire breath on him).
So do we know what we expect from magazine in the next couple of months? Hell, neither do I. But I’m willing to be taken for a ride. So hang on for dear life, bring along some clean underwear and we promise to arouse, to arise and to surprise.
Because this is Voltes team volting in.
This is Narda choking on a magic pebble
This is Billy Batson wailing Shazam.
This is Hot Rod when he gripped the Matrix in Transformers the Movie.
This is Japanese Monster sex show, baby.
This is the all-new, all-different UNO Magazine.
And we are going to blow you away like no Japanese monster ever could.
Nice!