And so it goes, in this world of swagger and machismo.

Words like luminous, velvet-smooth, sun-kissed are not supposed to be associated with Real Manly Men of the Schwarzenegger mold. Rugged, chiseled, wind-torn – now those are the words socially mandated for use in the tomes of How Real Men Should Be, and a pox be upon the man who has the misfortune to be discovered by his fellows with vitamin-enriched cucumbers nestled delicately on his eyes, and his feet gently marinating in a peppermint-jasmine foot spa.

So what is it, therefore, that makes a Real Man?

“He must subject himself to trials and tortures,” the classical machismophiles may say.“He must willingly subject himself to pain and suffering, and utter not whimpers but rather manly roars, congruent to those of a cow besotted with intestinal gas.”

To that, I will agree, and it is for that reason that I must say – getting my first ever facial and diamond peel was quite possibly the manliest thing I have ever done in all my life.

If in medieval times, men marched proudly into war to face down dark goblins and be gored through by rusted battle-spears, then the modern male equivalent is the dermatologist’s office. But today’s man faces down a different sort of foe; it is blackheads that besiege him, and it is gleaming silver blackhead removers that thirst vilely for his squeals of pain.

I will be honest in saying that the fear I felt as I stepped into Dermstrata’s Greenbelt branch was fathoms deeper than any I had ever felt before; not even a 700-lb load on the Gold’s Gym leg-press had ever jellied my legs in the manner that the dermatologist did. And for all the distinctly manly pains I have gone through in my life – circumcision, a muscle-tear, an attack of gout brought on by a stray over-indulgence in an incredibly manly plate of roast pork belly – nothing compares to the poking and prodding that my deceptively-harmless facial care specialist submitted me to.

“Zarah,” I remember moaning softly to my girlfriend, as glistening steel implements dug, scraped, and squeezed viciously at my ruggedly handsome face that some have said reminds them of a young Marlon Brando from a certain angle and distance*, “I think I’m going to cry.”

And it was true. Every quick jab, poke, thrust at my nose felt like a broadsword through my intestines. Over the course of the hour-long session, I truly, sincerely wanted to curl into a fetal ball and weep myself silently to sleep. As lasers screeched over my ravaged countenance, I felt instead like the White House being blasted by an extra-planetary laser in the movie Independence Day. As the finely-ground diamond peel Blast-O-Master 3000 whirred dangerously over my studly cheeks, visions of slaughterhouse accidents danced manically before my tear-bleared eyes.

“Sir, would you like to see your extracted blackheads?” the attendant murmured.

“By Odin, god of all Manly Men and official sponsor of Mr. Olympia 2015, yes!” I roared, eager to see the carnage and entrails I was sure had been spilled over the course of the last hour.

Before me was a saucer lined artfully with tissue paper. “Are those sesame seeds?” my mind wondered disbelievingly, staring at its contents.

“Your blackheads, sir,” the attendant whispered, seemingly reading my thoughts. “They’re much larger below than what you see on the surface. Like icebergs.”

“Icebergs,” I parroted back numbly. I literally melted back into a rubbery heap on the trolley. My stomach was churning. I had imagined blackheads to be diminutive little buds, perhaps suggestive of the short-shorn hair you find on your razor after your morning shave. I had not anticipated that they would be of such beastly proportions, roughly the size of sesame seeds, a sickly yellow-green in color, and ever-so-slightly crusty.

“Icebergs,” I whimpered one more time. “Like the ones that sank the Titanic! And killed Leonardo DiCaprio!”

I was catatonic. Nauseated. In shock.

But forty-eight hours later, I find myself radiating like a freshly-bloomed Ecuadorian rose. My skin feels silky-soft, buttercream-smooth. On my nose, where I used to have distressing little black dots, there is now only a pinkish-white luminescence. I feel dashing, debonaire, handsome even.

Artist's rendition of the New & Improved MDJ Superstar

I realize now, that like a sword that must be forged in the hottest of fires and folded in on itself over and over again to achieve its most glorious, finely-honed potential, so too must a man subject himself to the scourges and suffering of a regular facial to reach the mythical pinnacle of studliness. It’s an experience that challenges a man to question his capacity for courage, his tolerance for pain, his ability to soar above the sensation of the now.

People say I seem much kinder these days, more gentle and refined. An air of serenity seems to waft discreetly from my pores, and I glow with the radiance of a summer sun. “Have you found God?” they ask, “or perhaps your higher calling?”

“No,” I say, a beatific grin dancing on the edges of my lips. “I had a facial.”

* – When seen from behind at a distance of 2-kilometers on a slightly overcast day.

My dad was instrumental in launching their Milo powdered chocolate drink and Nido powdered milk in the Philippines in the 1980s, and we always grew up believing that Nestle was the gold standard when it came to quality food products. That was my dad’s fault; his word was the law, and if he said something rocked, I was all too happy to concur.

Tony De Joya says: "Drink more Milo, bitchezzzzz!"

I will openly credit Milo, after all, for my world-class, Olympic quality, award-winning Greek god physique. I practically invented the Milo Dinosaur in my youth, partly because I loved the crunch of the powder while I was drinking, but mainly because I was too lazy to dissolve the granules properly.

The Milo Dinosaur in all its glory.

(“Why is it called a Milo Dinosaur, MDJ Superstar?” you may ask. “Because of the sound your tummy makes after consuming three of them, young Padawan!” I will gleefully answer.)

But I digress.

Nestle has been around a heck of a long time, and just last month, it celebrated its 100th year in the Philippines. They launched a commemorative 90-second TV commercial directed by the incomparable Stephen Ngo telling the tale of Nestle as it threads through the lives of the Filipino consumer.

It’s beautiful, and I will allow you to view it for yourself.

Everything about it is perfect.

The casting, the production design & styling that perfectly captures the milieu of each era, the acting, the storyline – if anyone has ever said that Stephen Ngo is only good for high-gloss, slick productions with acting as a secondary priority, then this spot should prove them wrong. But I need to point out the song written by APO Hiking Society member Danny Javier as the most wonderfully heart-warming element of the piece – it works so well with the visuals, and adds so much emotion and texture in a resonant, deeply personal way.

Nestle has been around 100 years in the Philippines. As a marketing professional working for a rival organization, I wish them ill, and intensely catastrophic business results in the immediate future. But as a consumer, I commend their longevity and steadfast commitment to a singular higher purpose – of bringing good food, good life, to Filipino consumers everywhere.

* The views above reflect my personal opinion, and do not reflect any bias or judgment against how I conduct my professional life.

It was a mutually exclusive thing. There was practically no overlap between the fan bases of either WWE Superstar.

Either you bought into the wholesome “train, say your prayers, eat your vitamins” Real American persona of the Hulkster, or you were a devotee of the diametrically-opposed measured intensity and madness of the Macho Man. It was the Atomic Legdrop versus the Big Elbow, “Watcha gonna do when Hulkamania runs wild on you?” versus “Oh yeeeeahhh!!! Dig it!!!”

I hated Hulk Hogan. He was the predictable, too-white-bread-to-be-real, ultimate boy scout – the golden boy who never could seem to lose.

The Macho Man was just infinitesimally so much cooler, with his awesomer-than-awesome shades, crazy bushwhackin’ beard, sequined robes, and over-the-top flamboyant persona. When the Mega-Powers exploded in 1989, I was heartbroken that Hulk Hogan ended the year-long World Championship reign of Randy Savage.

Randy Savage never came out on top. He always came up with the short end of the stick when he faced down the invincible Hulk Hogan. It was frustrating to see Randy Savage claw and chop and axhandle his way to near-victory each time, only to have Hogan do his trademark “Hulk up” after absorbing the Macho Man’s patented Big Elbow, hit the Big Boot, drop the leg, and cover him for the 1-2-3.

He was the ultimate loser, always one step from snapping, never able to overcome the one big barrier of the Hulkster, never able to truly step out of his shadow. He was always the flawed anti-hero, doomed to fall, but never relenting in his emotion or intensity.

That, I think, is why I loved him so much, and why it was so gratifying to watch him lose his retirement match against the Ultimate Warrior at WrestleMania VII, but win ultimate redemption in what I think remains to be wrestling’s single greatest soap opera moment – his emotional reunion with his one true love, Miss Elizabeth, as he finally rode off into the sunset with the one thing that mattered most to him.

I genuinely cried when I watched this moment the first time, and I still get all damp twenty years later.

The Macho Man was one of a kind – the most flamboyant, craziest, most intense character the wrestling world has ever seen, and it tears me up that he passed away at the age of 58 in a heart-attack-induced car accident just a few days ago, just one year after he finally found peace and married his latest wife.

I am so glad that the WWE paid him a video tribute on the May 23rd edition of Raw. It was a bit of a shock, knowing how many bridges he had burned, and how he remains persona non grata in an age when even the bitterest prodigal sons such as Bret “Hitman” Hart came back home for one last blaze of glory in the WWE.

Rest in peace, Macho Man. The madness will never die.

We are all Savages.

And with a coif as masterful as that at age 107, who could argue with him? One only looks as good as one’s hair, and every girl and reasonably self-aware male above the age of 14 understands that all it takes is one bad hair day to ruin an otherwise magnificent ensemble.

So where does this leave bald men, i.e. the scintillatingly heart-stopping MDJ Superstar?

I have defended my skinheaded look by name-dropping countless examples of Beautiful Bald Men – those who have not relied on Bieber-esque locks to cause panties to get damp and brassiers to go flying. Agassi. Statham. Willis. Diesel. Connery. The Rock. Malkovich. These are men who have proven time and again that a shiny pate can be just as sexy as a Rob Pattinson flop-top.

It’s hard not to get jealous sometimes though.

The art of styling one’s hair is therapeutic, it’s a space of zen where masculinity and grace come together in a sensual mesh. I wish I could do it, but I haven’t got hair on my head.

Or… do I?

Facial hair is an underappreciated canvas for men to exhibit a bit of artistic expression. The conventional way is to grow a basic goatee, but I think that’s too safe, even with an occasional soulpatch for added effect.

(Caveat: Facial hair should never be TOO cultivated, lest one look like either a boyband member or Dr. Joel Mendez, neither of which is a good thing.)

There are so many joyous creations that can be sculpted out of facial hair.

Why not rock out with Lemmy Kilmeister-esque Motorhead Handlebar, also gloriously featured on the cover of the Beatles’ “Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band”?

Or if one is feeling a bit redneck-ish, throw on a country spin with muttonchop sideburns and a 70s porn star  ’stache? (Ron Jeremy would be very proud of this one)

For Asian-themed parties, there’s always the classic Fu Manchu.

And what Mexican-inspired outfit wouldn’t be complete without a Mariachi Mustachio?

(At this point, I was feeling very politically-correct, and skipped the organic next step: The Adolf Hitler barcode. I don’t know any Jews, but think they are a wonderful people.)

It’s always emotionally-painful to go back to a completely clean-shaven look, but that’s where all good things must begin.

What’s your favourite facial hair style? Leave me feedback below, and if I like your input strongly enough, I just might carve it out of the beard I’m currently growing. You might not be able to shape the world, but you can shape my facial hair!

Leave a comment and help me decide what groovy shape to carve out of my beard!

How’s that for the first ever Interational MDJ Superstar Manscaping Promo???

It’s an intriguing concept, especially since Z & I think that heart health is overrated. We’d been particularly intrigued by the Binagoongang Bagnet and the Spicy Ginataang Bagnet, and had long made it a goal of ours to drop by soon for one of our legendary gustatory adventures.

And so, last Holy Wednesday, we finally made the trek to Estrella Street in Makati for what we thought would be a nice, leisurely dinner.

But as you can read below, I don’t think we’ll ever go back again.

To make a long story short, my car was broken into, and both Z & I got our stuff stolen. We’ll be the first to admit – it was very stupid of us to leave our valuables inside the car while it was unattended. That’s something we never do. But that one night, we were both so tired and hungry and grumpy for work, and let our usual security-conscientiousness slide.

And so, it was goodbye to Z’s MacBook.

Goodbye to my iPad.

Goodbye shades and perfume and the 1-week old Cambridge Batchel that Z gave me.

Stupidity on our part, but I hoped we could do something to make sure something similar wouldn’t happen to 8065′s patrons in the future.

I dropped one of the owners of 8065 Bagnet a line – not to put blame on management (leaving one’s stuff in a car is a no-no, in any case), but because we were told by the extremely helpful MAPSA and police guys who helped us out that this is a frequent occurrence among diners there. I just wanted him to be fully aware of the security problem in his area, and to see if he’d be willing to get some help from the baranggay or even hire his own bantays in the future.

That was a week ago. And he has yet to acknowledge receipt of my message. So I don’t know if anything has been to done to secure future customers from what happened to us.

How else can I reach them?

This is the message I sent via Facebook:

=====

Hi Jeff, got your name from _______ – she mentioned you were the owner of 8065 Bagnet in San Antonio Village in Makati.

Anyway – ate there for the first time last Wednesday evening. Extremely good food, great prices. We’d been meaning to eat there for months but never made the time. Loved the binagoongan na bagnet and the ginataan. 

There were quite a lot of people that night, so I had to park my new car some distance from your restaurant, at the corner across David’s Salon, since there was no more space in front of 8065.

This led to the unpleasant part of our dinner. When we came out, two MAPSA guys informed us that the window of my car had been smashed in. We lost two bags containing a MacBook and an iPad, plus various other small valuables.

Obviously, it’s our fault for leaving valuables in the car in that neighborhood. It’s not something we normally do, and for sure it’s not something we will do again. Simply put, katangahan lang talaga namin for being so careless.

I’m just dropping a note to you because the MAPSA guys, the guys at the police station, and various residents nearby mentioned that there have been multiple similar incidents that have happened to patrons of your restaurant, as a place that’s growing in popularity. They say they’ve strongly suggested to the owners to at least hire some bantay’s to watch over the cars of your customers, in the same way as other nearby places we love like Central, Pat Pat’s Kansi, Bacolod Chicken BBQ, etc. 

Am hoping you are taking that suggestion under serious consideration. We love your food but don’t think we can ever come back until we have peace of mind that our car & belongings will be safe. I’ve also had to warn several of my friends who have heard great things about your place not to eat there, unless they’re willing to risk their valuables as well.

God bless and good luck to 8065 Bagnet. Hope to come back some day.

Thanks.

Mark