Reading up on the care bears

I find myself once again in Pagudpud, northermost point of Luzon island. In the same stretch of beach by the same resort where I spent a new year's celebration nearly two years ago. The weather has been intermittent from sunny to overcast, and I try to spend as much time as I can lounging around doing nothing.

The best thing about beach resorts would probably be how one can justifiably chug down beer in the mid-morning, while reading a book or writing this post. Life is good.

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I'm finding myself in unfamiliar territory, reading not one but two romance novels. Yikes, I know. How could a man (a wimpy one, but a man nontheless) veer away from the biographies, historical epics and action novels, turning to the genre which he finds to be fantastic, pathetic and girly to say the least? Though a bit more "classier" than the Twilight series, these are still undeniably romance bits.

The first book, loaned to me by a friend, is a 4-inch western where cowboys roamed the plains and herded cattle, horses and jackasses. No, it's not Brokeback Mountain, just to set the record straight. It was a tough read at first, not being familiar with American history and having no idea what "mesquite" or "chapparal" are, but it kinda got interesting with the appearance of a lone whore in the only saloon in town. (I browsed through the book in search of racy scenes, so far found none) So now, I'm probably through a fourth of the book and have adopted it for bedside reading.

The second book came by accident, when I scoured through my humble library for a good read on a plane. Turns out the 4-inch monstrosity I've been reading won't fit in my backpack, so I needed a more travel-friendly alternative. My interest was piqued by a novel that I swiped off my sister a year ago but haven't gotten around to reading. It was a familiar title, having been critically acclaimed and all that, but I hadn't done any research on what it was all about. When I opened the cover 32,000 feet above the air, I was shocked to find that it was actually a romance novel. Crap. Good thing I wasn't in an exit row, otherwise the prospect of opening the emergency exit and chucking the book off the plane (along with myself and most of the passengers, though) might have been such a tempting course of action.

So now I'm reading two romance novels, one at home and the other for travel. So far, no signs of me transforming into a sappy, love-lorn little bitch has emerged yet, so that's a good sign. Maybe this care-bear fest isn't all too bad, and I might learn a bit or two about being "sensitive" to women and their "feelings" (yes, quote marks necessary).

Just to be on the safe side, though, I bought a hard-core Puzo-esque book recently, to shake off any residual "touchy-feely" emotions I might pick up. Heaven help me if those two books make me want to watch Twilight. (I swear, I haven't even as much as glanced at the trailer!)